


Polaris

by Lula1571



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Intrigue, M/M, Mystery, Romance at some point maybe/I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lula1571/pseuds/Lula1571
Summary: "There was a star danced, and under that was I born. " (Beatrice, MAAN) Maple Bay is a sleepy, seaside town. Everyone knows everyone, whether you live on the Bayside proper or the "illustrious" North Ridge. Bad things don't happen. Shock is minimized. Until a late night car crash ends the life of a local teen and leaving another's life hanging in the balance. Because his best friend was involved, Lucien will move Heaven, Earth and anything in between to find answers as to why and how. When you're hunting and snooping, though, you best make sure who is predator... and who is prey.





	1. Accident

**_A/N:_** I don't know what I'm doing. I...THIS story demanded to be written because I made the mistake of watching YT videos of this game being played. I'm not really sure where this story is going to go. I just had to get it out of my head...I had to, people. Also, this chapter predates the start of the game. By how much? It's insinuated within this chapter. ...Just call me the queen of stories devoted to the random.  
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He flipped through channel after channel, listening to the thunder echo in the distance as the storm began to ebb away from the town. He listened for snippets, taglines, wait…

_"Tragic loss of life -"_

Flip.

_"Emergency response teams report - "_

Change.

_"...a witness reports seeing the car accelerate before allegedly hydroplaning -"_

Sigh. Another flick to the channel he preferred anyhow. Only then did he allow himself to recline into the couch and listen to the baritone vocals of Ramon Santiago of WCVB:

_"A community is shaken to its core! The town of Maple Bay, a peaceful sea-side town south of Plymouth, mourns the loss of senior Samuel Brightwell. Brightwell was driving home with friend, Felicity Dupree, last evening when his car suddenly spun out of control and crashed into the sea-side town's historic clock tower. Both Brightwell and Dupree – a rising junior and daughter of business tycoon Waylon DuPree – were rushed to Mariner's Memorial Hospital. Brightwell was pronounced dead upon arrival. At this time, DuPree is confirmed to be in intensive care. Representatives of the community – including Brightwell's youth minister, Joseph Christiansen of Bay Side Community Church, and North Ridge High School Principal, Trevor Morris, report a sense of grief and loss among residents – both Brightwell and DuPree known for being upstanding members of the Maple Bay community and leaders among their peers. Details concerning a memorial for Brightwell are forthcoming, but a candlelight vigil for DuPree has been confirmed for this Friday, 5 PM, at First Baptist Church of Maple Bay. Back to you, Monica..."_

His fingers massaged his knees, brimming with energy as he rewound the broadcast and listened again...and again...and again. The images of flashing lights, neon 'Police Scene: DO NOT CROSS' tape bobbing in the breeze, EMTs rolling gurneys while hoisting resuscitation equipment, the car crumpled in front like a soda can… It turned his stomach into a circus. Calm down, he told himself, continuing to distract his thrill with the rhythmic squeeze and release of his knees. When they talked of the death of the boy, he found he had unconsciously slid to the literal edge of his seat. The girl. That was different. His chest tightened with a mix of grief, disgust and anger. Confirmed to be in intensive care. The words lumped in his throat, stomach...lower still.

Hearing a creaking echo around the house, he flicked the television off and jumped up from the couch. He had to get rid of this energy. But it was too late to call a babysitter...too sensitive a time to disrupt the neighbors. Moving from the living room at the jolting pace of a race horse held back, he stopped and stood silent in the kitchen, waiting for more creaking but nothing came for a solid fifteen minutes. Somewhat relieved, he retreated to his room to change – deciding upon a nighttime sprint to deplete energy he'd pent up since the fifth observation of the newscast.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucien Bloodmarch moved through a haze. So addled was the gray matter of his brain that he had almost left the house with one eye sans heavy liner, a different shoe for each foot and the wrong gauge in his left lobe. The look on his father's face each time he emerged, and subsequently retreated, to his room made his stomach knot. The unspoken, lingering question between father and son: If he couldn't even get out of the house in a semblance of himself – how was he going to get through the day? Damien spared him the torture of riding the bus and drove him. He had murmured an anemic I love you, too before escaping the car to a throng of peers and parents – all of whom seemed to silence their conversations and watch him as he trudged up the front steps.

Now, he cut the meandering crowds of the hallways with bumps of his shoulders and overall jerky motions of his body. He could hear them, saw them clumping together against their lockers and whispering to one another. A thousand, thousand whirring mosquitoes – all abuzz with the same, unbearable noise. It was a shrill chorus of voices entirely out of tune of one another, singing the same song his ears couldn't entertain. It was walking into language he had no tongue for, no conception of how to string together. Clusters of bodies hunkering together, mouths moving with the patois of the truly clueless, the rhetoric of those with half-truths and whole, pompous egos.

_"Hey, Stoker..."_

Lucien whirled around – the action entirely innate, of his own unconscious doing. He turned into the gaze of a hundred eyes – some judging, others brimming with compassion. There hadn't been anyone there...no voice, at least not one anyone else had heard. His brain was playing an automatic tune, a melody he expected at some point in his daily routine. Grimacing, he jerked back around and made the slow trudge to his first period Math class. He tried to block it out, but the word kept popping up louder, harder, colder… He almost cursed out loud when a hand clapped his shoulder and brought his forward motion to a halt. Mr. Vega's bespectacled face peered down at him with all due sincerity and condolences Lucien hoped he wouldn't say out loud.

He hoped a little too much.

"Lucien, I...wanted to pass along - "

"Thanks," Lucien cut him off hard, "But not necessary, Mr. Vega."

"Lucien..." Vega started again, but the building tension in Lucien's body must have been warning enough.

"Like I said," he answered through gritting teeth, "Appreciated. Not necessary. Now, I best get going before Mrs. McNulty starts my year off with an early demise to my father's confidence in my behavioral constitution."

Vega released his shoulder – probably marveling at the string of words Lucien managed to assemble – and he continued onward. It was as though someone else had captured his vocal chords and composed the lyric because Lucien, while happy to consider himself snarky, caustic and even professionally irascible, could never be counted among the poetic or politely witty. That was all...He winced. It was the domain of others.

He entered the classroom and everyone became aphasic – unison necks whiplashing themselves to peer his way. It made him sick. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him angle his attention and he felt a slight wash of relief. Tony Harrington – fellow goth and friend since sixth grade – bee-lined for him and tossed a lazy arm about his shoulders, nonchalantly leading him to the back of the classroom as their peers eyed them before returning to previously scheduled conversations.

"Man...dude...I'm sorry," Tony whispered.

 _Uhg..._ Lucien groaned inwardly but made no alteration to his facial expression as he plunked into his seat and slid his books onto the formica desk top. "Yeah. Y'know...whatever." And he shrugged his shoulders as if to say _C'est la vie._

"Yeah. Life's a bitch and all that bull," Tony rambled, showing just how uncomfortable and oblivious he was at expressing emotion and sentiment. Lucien found it more palatable than Mr. Vega's attempts as solace – no offense to the English teacher.

"Mph," Lucien uttered in agreement.

"S-so...I mean," Tony swallowed, tinkered with a pen, "A-any change or news?"

Lucien had been eyeing a worn newspaper clipping he'd taped to the interior of his binder, feeling gravity drag down the corners of his lips while his brows furrowed together. Better Tony than anyone else, if he had his druthers on who would bring it up first. His thumb, with its black lacquered nail, ran around the outline of a picture smack in the middle of the news article. He lifted his gaze to his friend, noticing how quiet the room had once again become and mass curiosity of everyone else encroaching on their private conversation. Before he could answer though – the stout frame of Mrs. McNulty broke into the room, her singsong chortle of a voice welcoming them to the new school year and wonderful world of Mathematics.

"I hope you all had a stellar summer vacation!" She beamed as she popped the top off a dry erase marker and began scrawling some beginning-of-the-year team building exercise across the board. "Who wants to share something exciting that happened?"

There was an automatic, collective sucking of air from the class at her question and Lucien watched the woman's brow quirk when she turned to zero hands raised and averted gazes. He couldn't blame her for not noticing his presence, as his habit was to slump as far into the seat as physically possible and wait out the end of every period he found intolerable – which, based on his academic career, had been nearly every single class to date. When he straightened and lofted his hand into the air, he swore the woman turned green.

There was a natural hesitance in her voice when she recognized him but not his name, "Y-yes, Mr...Mr.."

"Bloodmarch, m'am," Lucien answered for her, with all due respect he promised his father he would attempt to muster, "Lucien Bloodmarch. I would like to share something that happened on my summer vacation."

There was eager creaking from around the room as bodies turned in their seats or craned their necks to give him full, ravenous attention. Mrs. McNulty appeared to gulp before granting him the slow nod to proceed.

"My dad and I visited London because he loves Victorian sh-...I mean, Victorian stuff, my grandparents attempted to lure me into a theme park vacation and..." Lucien had noted the deflated atmosphere when he started speaking, wanting one punch at their disgusting, passive-aggressive prying. "Oh, yeah. And my best friend was in a fucking car accident. I wouldn't call that exciting, but everyone's talking about it so I thought I would just throw that out there."

"O-oh my! I didn't realize...I'm so sorry. Mr. Brightwell, I hear -"

"Not Brightwell," Tony cut her off with sharp criticism.

"Oh! My apologies," the poor woman fumbled.

"Felicity...DuPree," a girl from the front of the class – a bookwormish type – uttered.

Lucien nodded his head. "She's in a coma."  
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Joseph stared at the screen of his laptop, chin resting on interlocking fingers – the perfect picture of concentration and frustration. He had been asked by the lead pastor and elders to give the sermon for Samuel's memorial service scheduled for later that evening – but the words were hard coming. And not for lack of trying or knowledge. Beside the computer rested a notebook scribbled with verse after verse of Scripture traditionally utilized for funerary purposes. He had even gone so far as to organize them in the order by which he wanted them delivered, noted particularly brilliant or poignant personal statements with red asterisks. But the words weren't coming. Nothing slid off his fingertips. In the three days since being asked to draw something up, all Joseph had was the ink-riddled paper to his right.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair and felt it tilt backward. He rubbed his face with his hand, felt the stubble on his chin tickle his palm and reminded himself he needed to shave before he left the house.

Brightwell had been a good kid, a solid member of the youth group – passionate about all things maritime, sports and cars. However, Joseph could count on one hand the number of personal conversations he and Sam had in the ten years he had been serving Bay Side Community Church. The boy came from a good family – working mom and dad, two younger siblings Joseph couldn't recall at the moment, good morals, ethics...all the components for the quintessential American, nuclear family. He'd been a star athlete – baseball, if Joseph remembered right because he knew it wasn't football – good student and even gone on a few mission trips. Christiansen supposed he could hem and haw about that – part and parceling the Scripture in where it fit, emphasizing his own sense of loss and grief.

He glanced at the ornate, nautical clock on the opposite wall and frowned. He had four hours to figure this out. Enough time to take a constructive break and check on the state of affairs with his own home. Before retreating into his office, the house had resounded with a chorus of sniffles, whimpers and childish sobs sometimes countered by the bite and bark of his eldest, who had taken to finding objection in every little thing asked of him.

_"Chris, eat your cereal."_

**_"But I hate this kind!"_ **

_"Chris, brush your hair...it's become a rat's nest."_

**_"So?! I like it that way!"_ **

_"Chris, don't talk to your brother and sister that way..."_

**_"Why not?! They're stupid!"_ **

Everything with him had become stupid, hateful, lame or pointless. Joseph attempted to be patient with the eight-year old, though Mary had surrendered quickly to her temper – easily expressing and giving into her frustration on more than one occasion. When she wasn't blustering around the house, snaking jabbing criticisms at anyone within earshot, she was zealously driven to her volunteerism or drinking or both. Joseph had heard word from other parents at the playground that Mary had gone above and beyond the adoption quota at the animal shelter – practically forcing animals on people by playing the grief card. Hearing that, then listening to her callously justify the action as saving other lives, had tightened his stomach with anger.

"Daddy..." came the soft voice of his daughter from beside him.

Joseph uncovered his face, surprised by the moisture on his skin. He wiped his face one more time to be on the safe side before righting his chair and looking down at Christie with a soft smile. "What is it, sweetie?"

"Um...When is sissy going to wake up?" The four and half year old looked him full in the face with huge, gray eyes – inherited from him – full of optimism.

"Oh, sweetheart, I..." Joseph felt his throat tighten. He noted shadowy movement behind his daughter and lifted his eyes to the doorway where her brothers stood, one uncharacteristically sheepish and the other resentful but just as hopeful as his sister. The quiet around them all meant the baby was sleeping and he was grateful for that. The quiet lasted a long moment as he fought for an explanation that would make sense to them, that would do no more harm than had already been dealt.

"I heard Jared's mom tell another mom she isn't ever going to wake up..." Chris's voice – usually prickly – broke the silence as a soft, choking whisper. His bitterness seemed to melt for the topic at hand.

That seemed to shock his sister, as Christie whipped her head toward her older brother and shrieked, "That's a lie! She's going to wake up! Daddy, tell him to stop lying!"

"I'm not lying, stupid!" Chris shot back.

Joseph sighed heavily, "Kids... _please._ "

"You shut up! Daddy, he called me stupid!" The little girl's eyes were filled with equal parts rage and sorrow.

Joseph stood and collected his daughter with one arm – ending he argument between siblings with a single gesture. Chris said nothing more, just crossed his arms and huffed though his father could see the glint of stubborn tears in his eyes when he turned his head a little. Christian rocked from one foot to the other in a self-soothing rhythm, glancing slowly between elder brother and twin. Unless speaking in unnerving unison with Christie, Christian was their quietest child. He let his mischievous actions speak on his behalf more than words but both Mary and Joseph had found when he chose to speak, and independently at that, there was a depth to his words that belied his years.

"Margot's big sister said it's called a coma. She said it's like a big, long nap people take when their head gets hurt," his voice lilted as his stare landed on his father. "Is that right, dad?"

Joseph nodded solemnly. "Yes, that's about right."

"So...sissy hurt her head?" he asked, a little more hesitation in his voice this time.

"Yes, she did," Joseph answered before leading his children out into the living room, which looked like a nuclear war of juvenile proportions. Toys exploding over couch cushions, puzzle pieces scattered over table tops and spilling onto the floor, Legos the shrapnel of battles between siblings, and aggressively scribbled pictures torn to agitated shreds littered the floor like mourning confetti. Joseph brushed mess out of the way and took a seat, moving Christie to his lap before taking a deep breath in. He hated having to say it all again...remember it all again. But as he looked into his childrens' pleading eyes, he could not help but remember that night.  
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Five nights ago, the peace of their home had been abruptly disturbed by the intrusion of sharp knocks on the front door. That woke the baby up, after Mary had spent an hour coaxing him to sleep – something she had not done since he was six weeks old. The infantile screams had woken the twins up, and their subsequent, vocal curiosity had dragged Chris from his room with an irritated, sleepy snort. And all before Joseph had the opportunity to open the door. He had expected a neighbor, perhaps even a drunk and beligerant Robert Small, but not the police. It still sent a shiver down his spine when he thought of it.

"Sir, are you Joseph Christiansen?" they had asked and he had nodded, stupefied by their presence. Then they had asked if they could speak with he and his wife alone. Joseph recalled his stomach freezing then falling into a cavern within himself as he called his wife onto the front porch with the officers. He had closed the door to keep the children inside. The baby had been subdued to a fatigued, annoyed grumbling.

"I'm sorry, but what is all this about? Why are you knocking on our door? We haven't done anything," Mary's anxiety came out as nothing less than raised hackles.

"No m'am, you haven't. We're here because..." one officer had started then looked to his partner, as if unsure whether or not to proceed.

"Because…?" Mary had snapped.

"Mary," he had said, "Let the men do their job. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."

"Sure there is, **dear** ," she had jabbed angrily, "And I'm waiting for it."

"Mr. and Mrs. Christiansen, you were listed as emergency contacts for one," the other officer paused to glance at his pocket-sized notepad, "Felicity DuPree. Is this correct?"

There was a mutual sentiment of shock between he and his wife as they had looked at one another with confusion and immediate concern. Not trusting his wife's tongue, Joseph had both answered and asked a question, "We know Felicity. She's been our babysitter for years...practically a member of the family. I don't think we were made aware we were her emergency contacts. Is something the matter?"

"W-what's this all about? Has she done something? Have you contacted her parents?" Mary asked, more subdued and mindful.

"No, m'am – Ms. DuPree has not done anything warranting police involvement. Yes, we have attempted to reach Mr. and Mrs. DuPree with no success."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," his wife muttered, another edge building to her voice.

"Is Felicity okay?" Joseph had asked to keep the conversation on what was important.

The officers shared another glance between one another before the first officer spoke once more, "Unfortunately, sir, there's been an accident."

Professionally, deftly, the police officer explained how there had been a car accident. How Felicity had been riding in the passenger's seat, how she had been rushed to the hospital, how they had no more information at this time other than doctor's were doing their best to save her life. When they suggested one of them go to the hospital, to wait in the stead of parents who should have answered their phones by this point, Joseph had jumped at the obligation – not that Mary would have done it. Hospitals brought out the worst in her.

He and his wife – well, actually **_he_** more than he and Mary, who had been unable to keep her composure once the police officers left– had done their best to explain to their three older children what they had been told, why their sleep had been disturbed. Not that it did much good. They heard what they heard and it had been nothing but tears and tantrums since. He had stayed long enough to get the twins calmed down and in bed. Chris, whom they had both expected to simply slide back into his room, turned out to be the worst. He had started crying, refusing comfort and though he did go to his room – it was soon followed by the sound of wrathful destruction and angry sobs.

By the time he arrived at the hospital, it was well after midnight and there were no updates available to him. Though he was sure the police were continuing to try, he took it upon himself to call Felicity's parents. Or, rather, parent. Joseph didn't know Waylon – had met the man all of twice and neither occasion was a pleasant one. Audrey DuPree was another matter. Not that she and the Christiansens were close, but Joseph had more interaction with Audrey because of the nature of Felicity's relationship to them – and due to the fact that Audrey was the parent Felicity lived with. Audrey was a woman of industry and, like his own wife, a lush with a penchant for drinking heavily after sealing corporate deals for the company run by her ex-husband and his family. Audrey's parents lived in town, were long-standing members of the Maple Bay community, and had VIP seating at Maple Bay First Baptist. Joseph wondered, while listening to repetitious dial tones, why they had not been listed as emergency contacts.

He left Audrey a vehement message, instructing her to _first_ call the police officers – whose cell numbers he recited from a business card he had to fish out of a back pocket – then immediately call him. Somewhere within the message, Joseph made the suggestion that informing Felicity's father could be of some benefit. Locking his phone, he replaced it and the business card to his back pocket and proceeded to casually stroll the waiting room. There were few others inhabiting the place; a testament to how little the emergency department was required by the population of Maple Bay. Those that were sharing Joseph's company tonight were either slumbering in various uncomfortable, body-slouching positions or distracted by media of differing taste. Interested in neither social media nor news broadcast, Joseph awaited a buzzing from his britches, some blood relative of Felicity, or news from the doctors to relieve him of his tentative post.

After striding the space enough times to make himself sick, Joseph determined it would be better to go with the herd and plunk himself into a chair for the time being. He occupied a space away from the scant few littered about the room, cell phone on thigh and eyes alternating between its screen, the television and the door separating the hale from the infirm and injured. Everything around him resounded with the sound of sterile, oppressive silence. It was lulling in a humdrum way and the next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder. He must have dozed off because there was a kink in his neck and when he checked his phone, it was shy of three in the morning. Yawning, Joseph turned bleary attention to the woman who had disturbed his rest. Dressed in surgical scrubs, there was no doubt who had come to speak with him and that realization jolted him alert like a fresh shot of adrenaline.

"Are you Mr. DuPree?" the doctor asked tentatively.

Joseph realized there was no one else in the waiting area. Made her question pretty moot had he really been Felicity's father. He shook his head, his voice coming out hoarse from fatigue, "No. I'm Joseph Christiansen. I was listed as an emergency contact." He lifted his cell phone, as if offering proof of his past endeavors, "I tried calling Felicity's mother. Left a voice message but I haven't heard back from her." He double-checked to make sure, in his slumber, Audrey had not called him or texted or otherwise attempted to get his attention.

"Oh...Well. Um. This is certainly unheard of," the doctor said, sliding a hand over her surgical scrub cap and removing it. It was decorated with hearts and the alternating flat lining and spiking of EKG monitors. "You see – we don't have a consent for you. Status as an emergency contact allows for notification purposes only. If we don't have the consent, then..." she sighed and scrunched the cap between nervous fingers, "I can't share protected health information without either written or verbal consent from a parent."

Joseph frowned. He understood. The man had four kids. He was not unaccustomed to the multitude of HIPAA consent forms parents signed off on for their children to receive medical care. He had just never considered he'd ever be in a position where he wished he had been an identified party with whom a doctor could share information. "I see. So...you can't tell me how she's doing?"

The doctor shook her head. "Legally, no I cannot." There was a silence between them as the doctor looked around the room. Now she frowned, excused herself and strode to the nurses station for a brief conversation with the nurse before disappearing into the small office behind the station.

Joseph saw the doctor borrow the phone beside the nurse manning the station, but had no clue as to whom she could be calling. Sighing, he tried to avoid the feeling that he had wasted hours of his life and forced himself to become both anxious and uncomfortable for no reason. He rubbed his eyes, muffled another yawn with a fist and distracted himself with his phone. The doctor returned about five minutes later with a marginally more satisfied expression than when she departed. Joseph adjusted himself in his seat and slid his phone away. Regardless of what the woman was about to tell him, he expected he would be leaving the hospital. Though he was eager for news concerning Felicity, part of him was desperate for the comfort of his bed.

"So, I spoke with the police officers," the doctor started, "To confirm if they had been in touch with the parents. Seems they were finally able to reach the father and he is en route as we speak. From the sound of it, they were satisfied to reach one parent and left it up to Mr. DuPree to inform her mother at this point in time."

Joseph winced a bit at the thought of Waylon DuPree striding through those doors any minute. If Waylon had it his way, Joseph would be barred from the situation and have to scrap for news the same way any stranger might. "Well, that is certainly an improvement from five minutes ago," he responded.

"Vastly," the doctor said.

"But you still can't tell me anything, can you?"

"No, sir. But I will say this… If a patient _dies_ , we are no longer bound by firm bonds of confidentiality. Obviously, we wouldn't shout it from the rooftops, but in situations like these – rare as they are – if an emergency contact was the only person available, they would be told the patient had died so that individual could inform the parents, family members, etc… In the event the surgeon does what surgeons do and cannot be available for the family, you see," she explained. Saying everything without saying anything in particular at all.

The great knot in Joseph's chest relaxed and he breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded, stood and thanked the doctor with a firm shake of the hand. They parted ways – she retreating back to the ICU or wherever her next patient was, if she wasn't returning to Felicity, and he to his car, to his home.  
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It was the next evening, after getting less than six hours of sleep, learning of Sam Brightwell's death in the same car accident and attempting to distract three anxious and upset children when Audrey DuPree called him. He was in the midst of forcing himself to lose at Sorry with his kids when the cellphone blared off – startling all of them. To keep from waking Crish, Joseph had all but pounced the phone. Audrey's sobbing voice was the first thing he heard and all his hopes from the pre-dawn hours vanished.

"S-she's in a coma! Th-th-they don't know if she'll _ever_ wake up!"  
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 **A/N Pt. 2** \- So...yeah, that just happened. Parts of this, like Joseph's paternal side, were not easy to write and just because there are gaps, chinks and areas of insinuation (particularly with that character) with how some of these people operate. Also, the concept of **_medical_** confidentiality is more foreign to me. As a therapist, I know the limitations of my brand of confidentiality and supposed what they could be within a medical emergency situation. And, for those who have played or watched the game, realize some things are vague. I hate vague. Like...where the heck is Maple Bay supposed to be located?! How old are all these kids?! BAH. After much scrutiny...And I FINALLY figured out this all takes place in Massachusetts.


	2. Coma

Waylon DuPree was not a good father. Not that he really aspired to be. 

Waylon never really wanted to be a father in the first place, as he had been content to live the length of his life as a bachelor – feeding every selfish desire until it was stuffed beyond capacity before moving onto the next thrilling thing or body that captured his attention. But….how does the saying go? If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans? Well, Waylon never had to tell anyone his plans – everyone just seemed to expect him to maintain narcissistic indulgence until he either died or became bored of it. What Waylon had always known about his life was that he attended pedigreed schools full of well-to-do children proffered before Charleston society like Kentucky thoroughbreds, and once he graduated from Camden Military Academy, would entertain the notion of going to no other campus than that of The Citadel – as his father had – then assume his rightful position within the family corporation as if it were some Plantagenet dynasty in sore need of an heir. 

By the time he was eighteen and facing the walk across the stage, Waylon dismantled the expectations of family and friends and ventured North – despite his vocal aversion to the cold and what he perceived, and identified, as the indecipherable dialect of mafia thugs. **_That_** was his first mistake. His second was assuming he could maintain his philandering ways without some form of social consequence. After all, he wasn’t living in the land of good ol’ boys dealing out cards for Bourré while sipping mint juleps or straight-up bourbon and regaling one another with stories of their numerous escapades. He was not in the land of Big Daddies justifying their sons’ profligate ways as sowing wild oats. No, he was in the land of blue states, Kennedys, Adamses and the general attitude that anyone with the lilting accent heard south of the Mason-Dixon line was, at the very least, twenty intelligence points lower than the general population. His third, and gravest mistake, was believing himself above the consequences of his blunders. Well, as he would tell it, the real mistake was meeting Audrey Sorenson. 

He met her his senior year – the only small blessing out of an abhorrent situation was it had not happened at any point in his academic career where it would have derailed him significantly. She had been pretty – a leggy, champagne blonde with Nordic good looks that were easy on the eyes and a sway to her hips that could stop traffic. Or, so he had thought of her when he wanted her, when he had been fascinated by her. She had been more than content to keep his bed warm on those cold, Massachusetts nights and he had been more than happy to believe she was telling the truth when she said they had nothing to worry about because she was on the pill.

Waylon DuPree had been an idiot. 

His parents, whose massive disappointment was dwarfed only by their pride, had agreed to pay the abortion fee and a handsome sum for Audrey to keep her mouth closed. Anything to avoid salacious, bad press and the embarrassment of whispers and darting looks at the country club. Mother couldn’t have her bridge party wondering why there was a baby with no wedding, nor could father stand to be the brunt of social needling on the green. They could not neither lose nor weaken their sphere of influence amongst Charleston – nay, _Southern_ – elite. Besides, the DuPrees were used to people wanting to accept their money for silence. Ignoring a fender-bender here, pretending father hadn’t groped the maid’s ass there, slowly and steadily lining the pockets of sheriffs, judges and senators alike. 

The DuPrees were not accustomed, however, to the staunch morality and old money of the Sorensons – never mind that the same sentiment for propriety had skipped their daughter. For all the bribes the DuPrees had offered, Audrey’s parents had countered with threats of court involvement and accusations of rape if Waylon did not do the honorable thing in their eyes and marry their daughter. For every lawyer the DuPrees namedropped, Audrey’s parents seemed to know two more and a judge to go with them. The one-upping was getting neither family anywhere and, in the meantime, Audrey came that much closer to her due date. The combat of wills ended in a tense negotiation wherein both parties compromised: the Sorensons allowing Waylon to finish his degree before marrying their daughter and that Audrey would sign a prenuptial agreement, in the event that things turned out the way everyone expected it to – in divorce. While two teams of grossly overpaid lawyers hemmed and hawed over the logistics of the prenuptial agreement, Waylon made a point of avoiding his bride-to-be at any and all cost until he was forced to be in her presence for however long their sham of a marriage lasted. He kissed his hedonistic future good-bye soon after graduation, assumed his responsibilities within the company and married Audrey Sorenson as promised.

Again, Waylon had never felt the call of paternity the way some friends and frat brothers had. He had never even vaguely considered what it would be like to hold a child of his own in his arms because he simply hadn’t cared for it. He had barely been able to tolerate his younger siblings when they were infants. However, even he was surprised by the wave of emotion and sense of pride he experienced when his son was born. William Jason “Jace” DuPree. If the baby had to be anything, Waylon had been thankful it was a boy. He could do things with a boy. He could be a father to a boy because he knew all about what it meant to be a boy, then a man. 

Except for marriage. He could never teach his son about marriage because his was an utter failure. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, if he thought about it but he rarely did that. Audrey had been attractive enough to capture his wayward attention, so he had initially figured she would be enough to maintain it. But a casual bedfellow does not a strong life partner make. When it was just sex and pleasure, neither he nor Audrey had to know much about each other beyond what got them to an orgasm. Because she had become pregnant and panic ensued, there had been no time to amass a wealth of knowledge concerning their likes, dislikes, preferences, goals, etc… Marriage changed very little about that since a large chunk of their first year was devoted to getting Audrey through her pregnancy, then learning to live with a newborn. Through this, Waylon learned that his wife was just as selfish as himself, had a piss poor temper, cursed like a sailor, manipulated like a puppet master and could rack up credit card debt faster than anyone he knew.

When he considered the portraits of them as a young family – before Felicity had been born – he wondered if their son had been the only one with a genuine smile on his face. Waylon and Audrey had learned early on that tolerating one another was going to get them farther than attempting to be in love. He figured they both hoped that through mutual tolerance, something like love would bloom. But, it didn’t. They made for a good couple at face value – handsome, well-to-do, good connections with a precocious little boy. They could even keep it together long enough to see their son through his mornings and evenings – everything in between was a toss up between cold avoidance or heated conflict. And the conflict was always, inevitably followed by some sort of regretful sexual encounter. Not that the sex was bad, but that they both seemed lament the fact that it always came to that, that neither could stick to their guns long enough to keep their clothes on.

And that was how Felicity was born.

The unplanned child conceived following a particularly nasty argument between Waylon and Audrey. He was sure they were both drunk because they had come back from a company party, or some sort of occasion, and from the time they got in the car to the stop of their room they had done nothing but bite and bark at each other. The conclusion had been what it always was… Six weeks later, Audrey had given him the news. Just as before, there was little excitement to meet what would have been a joyous occasion for any other couple. 

Perhaps it was because of how it had happened.

Perhaps it was because they were, for all intents and purposes, content being a one-child family.

Perhaps it was because Waylon had recently gone to the family lawyer to begin drawing up divorce papers.

Perhaps it was all these things and more that made him a little less emotional or struck with pride when Felicity was born. The baby being a girl did not help the situation, since he hadn’t a clue about what to do with a girl. His mother had been thrilled. Audrey’s parents had been content that the baby was healthy, but the Sorensons came across as excited about being grandparents as Waylon was about being a father… especially for a second time.

He did try in the beginning, though. It might not have lasted as long as it did with Jace, whom he found easy to parent, but it would be a lie to say he did not give it a go. With about five years between them, Jace seemed more thrilled than Waylon to have Felicity around. He stuck to buying her the requisite pink and frilly things, dolls, stuffed animals, etc… When it came to quality time, he could feed her, rock her, carry her around when he wasn’t exhausted by the demands of the office. As she got older, though, time seemed less available both because of work and Waylon’s avoiding being home as much as possible. The strife between he and Audrey had hit an all time high – especially when she found out that he had started having an affair when she was about five or six months pregnant with Felicity. By the time the girl was four and Jace nine, they had divorced. In his, possibly, greatest act of paternal love – Waylon had neither enforced the prenuptial agreement nor pursued custody of his children. His logic was to spare his children the unpleasantries of the court process and minimize as much vitriol between he and Audrey as possible. All he asked was for summer vacations and occasional holidays with his kids and decreased alimony payments since Audrey would not lose her position within the company as a result of the divorce.

He didn’t stop her, nor take her back to court, when she moved herself and their children from Charleston all the way up to Massachusetts – back to her family and the sleepy seaside town of Maple Bay where Audrey had grown up. From everything he heard when the children visited him for a week or so out of the summer – they liked it up there, had good friends and enjoyed the snow in the Winter. Maple Bay sounded like a haven for his son and daughter and he was content to be the vacation dad that bought them stuff when they begged for it, because money made up for absence.

…But money couldn’t bring a dead child back from the grave.

Losing Jace had been the biggest blow in his life. What relationship, which had already been strained, he had with his daughter was destroyed when her brother passed away. The summer and Holiday visitations ceased because Felicity refused to spend a single moment in Waylon’s presence following Jace’s funeral and he did not press the matter since… after all… Waylon was not a good father.

Still, good, adequate or sub-par… father’s love, or should love, their children. And Waylon did love his daughter even if he had no idea how to be her father. Even if they fought almost as viciously as he and Audrey. Even if he had, in the past, let things come from his mouth he regretted. Even if… Even if… Even if… That used to be her favorite question to ask him. 

_You’ll come visit me in the summer_

_Even if it rains?_

_Yes, even if it rains._

Or

_I’m still your father, dammit. Talk to me!_

_Even if I don’t want to? Even if I can’t stand you?_

_Yes_ , he thought to himself as he looked at the bed. _Even if you want to rip my eyes out…Please say something. **Do** something!_ But she didn’t. She just laid in her bed, breathing in and out with the ease of a slumbering baby. Waylon was not a good father, hadn’t wanted to be a father but he did love his daughter. Even if she was in a coma and it took a coma to make him realize how much.  


* * *

____

Even if she was in a coma, at least their only surviving child wasn’t dead. That was the tagline Waylon and Audrey DuPree emphasized while standing before the mass of community members flooding First Baptist Maple Bay’s sanctuary the Friday after the accident had happened. Waylon went on about how there was hope for recovery, hope for seeing their _little girl_ again and that they, and the rest of Felicity’s family, were beyond humbled and thankful for the turnout that evening and the willingness of everyone present to keep her health, healing and family in their thoughts and prayers. Audrey stood beside her ex-husband, ever sniffling between quiet sobs and stoic silence.

Lucien didn’t care for either of them, if he was honest with himself. The amount of times he had met Felicity’s father could be counted on one hand – the number of times those encounters were pleasant couldn’t be counted at all. Her mother always came across as though maternity was the last on a long list of things to do. Lucien had more faith in Audrey’s affections than Waylon’s, but she was – for all intents and purposes – a pretty absentee mother. If he were more than knight-in-shining-armor type, Lucien might have held her truancy against her but he knew what it was to be raised by a single parent with another blowing off in the breeze somewhere. He mentally granted Audrey leniency for the fact that she maintained a full-time job as a means of supporting herself and her daughter… even if it was at the sacrifice of having a normal family structure and lifestyle. Not that Lucien put much stock in normality, but Felicity’s situation made him grateful for the involvement Damien had in his life – how it was never a question in his father’s mind about being there for Lucien whether his son always wanted it or not. 

This candlelit ceremony of sniffling, faux-emotional bystanders pricked the same nerve. Maybe he did need to talk to a shrink if a bunch of people gathering to the benefit of his best friend pissed him off. Lucien had wanted to park himself in the back, where he knew he and his father could avoid the judgmental glances and whispers of a community they hadn’t partaken of in years, but Damien thwarted his son’s plans by leading him through the building crowd to a few pews in the middle of the sanctuary where the rest of the cul de sac was gathered. Seemed Mr. Christiansen had taken it upon himself to secure their tiny non-neighborhood seats together, as if everyone on the block knew Felicity.

Mr. Cahn and his trio of daughters had only been living amongst their insular clique a few months prior. Lucien wasn’t Felicity, but felt certain the most connection she had with Mr. Cahn was a proposition for babysitting at one of Christiansen’s backyard cookouts. Mr. Small was allergic to anything and everything communal unless there was the guarantee of 1) alcohol and 2) cooked meat, so Lucien doubted he was attending because he was shaken by Felicity’s medical state. Bloodmarch knew Small and Mrs. Christiansen were friends, as he had seen them on multiple occasions stumbling out of either Jim and Kim’s or that counterfeit Irish pub on South Broad, so he figured the real reason Small had deign to make an appearance was for her sake. Lucien didn’t even bother with the Christiansens; purposefully avoiding Mary’s glance and Joseph’s attempt to empathically pat his shoulder. Irrational as it was, he held Joseph, Mary and nonchalant parenting as the reason for the coma in the first place.

Mr. Harding – who took up a good portion of the opposite end of their pew – had done some work on both Felicity’s and her grandparent’s homes, but also enlisted Felicity’s services when it came to the occasional babysitting job. He recalled Felicity enjoying the few times she’d watched Daisy, mostly because the girl was quiet, polite and non-demanding – a refreshing change of pace from the Christiansen hoard. Said young Harding sat huddled against her father, Emily Brontë’s _Wuthering Heights_ cracked open but her eyes didn’t seem to be moving. Seeing the book made Lucien’s chest tighten. He stared a bit too long and met Daisy’s eyes, misty and anxious.

In front of them sat the Sellas, Carmensita and Mat – who looked like a rabbit in the midst of a pack of bloodhounds. Felicity loved retreating to The Coffee Spoon after particularly difficult shifts managing the needs of the four toe-headed treasures, often dragging Lucien with her because – though she never said it to anyone else – she still sometimes felt like an outsider amongst their community. Friends with benefits, or rather Felicity’s benefit as she used Lucien as her personal green card into the Bayside community. He didn’t mind, at least not when he was drawn for nighttime Arabica because Sella didn’t ask questions, tease, insinuate or even bother attempting to make conversation with them; in return, Lucien had the distinct pleasure of lugging her into every Goth store or venue he could when it appealed to him to see her squirm and grouse. Her patronage and combo penchant for chocolate and pop music eventually earned her the right to brand one of the drinks at Sella’s cafe – _Mocha! At the Disco_. Lucien had gagged on his jet black brew.

Lucien shoved those memories away, because he did not want to consider the possibility that they would never share coffee, or anything, again. He fell against the green velveteen seat, right beside Ernest Vega – who looked as thrilled as someone lining up for a firing squad. Ernest gave him a side-glance before sneaking his phone out and occupying his attention there. The Vegas had more exposure to Felicity since they were the Bloodmarch’s next door neighbors and while Hugo appeared to like Felicity just fine – to the extent their limited encounters allowed – there was no love loss between she and Ernest. 

Not that he showed it, because Lucien maintained emotional expression that laid on the spectrum of bored to discontented, but he was shocked Ernest was here at all. The clandestine rivalry between the two sectors making up Maple Bay – Bayside, aka Maple Bay proper, and the North Ridge – came alive between Ernest and Felicity. They were a headache, really. Lucien put blame on both of them, since Felicity had started it all by calling Ernest _an ungrateful, churlish brat_ ; as if using insulting Ernest to practice SAT vocabulary. Ernest retaliated as only Ernest could...by calling her _a pampered North Ridge bitch_. Lucien couldn’t recall now what had sparked the argument in the first place. He could hear the echo of their voices, saw indignity on Felicity’s face, the smug expression of triumph on Ernest’s but not the setting, the ignition… that was lost to the fog.

“What’d your dad pay to get you here?” Lucien whispered once the service started.

“What’s it to you?” Ernest grumbled back, eyes on his dimmed cell screen.

“Because she’s my fucking friend and if you’re here to start shit, my fist will assist in removing the remainder of your baby teeth from that peach fuzz face of yours,” Lucien answered evenly – eyes locked on the pulpit as the DuPrees took center stage.

“You’re too afraid to scuff that emo-black nail polish of yours, Mr. Hot Topic,” Ernest countered with a smirk to his voice, “Don’t wanna smudge that manicured guy-liner…wouldn’t be a real goth without it, now would you?”

Lucien gritted his teeth together then relaxed his jaw and rested his back against the polish wood of the pew. “Better than being angsty teen misanthrope who wears the same ratty, orange hoodie day in and out. What’re you going for? Maple Bay boxcar kid?”

“Fuck off, Lucien,” Ernest shot as his eyes glared up from the phone. “I mighta been dragged here by Hugo, but at least everyone knows where I stand with this snobby, North Ridge priss.”

Lucien felt his fingers curl into hot fists itching for the collision of Ernest’s mouth. “Say that again and - ” He barely noticed the DuPrees having exchanged places with the church’s pastor.

“And what? You’ll defend your girlfriend’s honor?” Ernest sneered.

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” Lucien snarled back.

“Is she even your friend? Or rather, are you really her friend?” the smarmy punk’s word rendered Lucien very still. Ernest kept going, averting his gaze once again to the device in his lap even as everyone around them began to stand for the singing of a hymn. “Heh… funny thing. Last I recall, the two of you entertained the whole neighborhood with - ”

“Shut up!” Lucien said so loudly that those around them – Hugo, his father, Small and both Christiansens shot glares his way. He heard Ernest’s chuckle get cut off by curt, authoritative Spanish from Hugo while Damien grabbed his son’s elbow and yanked him up. Lucien was shaking with anger and guilt, the whole sanctuary blurring in his vision. The voices lofting the hymn buzzed in his ears as white noise while he did his best to relax the fists at his sides.

When the song ended, he resumed his seat between his father and Ernest with a far more noticeable slouch. He ignored Vega Junior and attempted to focus on the pastor at the lectern as he invited up Mr. Christiansen to share a few words. Lucien watched Joseph Christiansen stand, personal Bible clutched in one hand while the other smoothed the paisley tie he wore. Mr. Christiansen strode up to the podium like he was meant to be there, opened up his leather bound Holy book and began speaking.  


* * *

Coma. 

Torpor. 

Persistent vegetative state. 

Call it whatever you want. The verdict seemed to be the same no matter how fancy or convoluted with medical jargon the diagnosis was. Felicity DuPree was mentally unresponsive. The cause, the doctors determined, was traumatic brain injury to the back of the head as a direct result of the car accident – perhaps, they conjectured, from when the car had slammed into the brick siding of the clock tower, shooting her forward but the airbag deploying thrust her back and against the headrest with a degree of force substantial enough to cause damage. The truth was nobody was one-hundred percent certain. They could only hypothesize, since no one was present to definitively explain what had happened. She had other injuries consistent with the car accident, but what happened with her head during the accident was anyone’s guess. Doctors, in their pressed, pristine-white, medical coats – stethoscopes round their necks, looking straight out of an episode of General Hospital – had sat opposite the DuPrees and walked them through every cut, suction and suture determined necessary to save their daughter’s life. 

_Not that it’s much of a life at this point in time._

That was the gloomy conclusion Audrey DuPree drew up when Joseph met with her the evening she had called him in tears. Their conversation had been largely drown out by the variety of crooning that composed Mat Sella’s Open Mic Nights. Audrey had been fidgety, constantly turning the untouched coffee mug between her palms and glancing over her shoulder at the patrons singing in the room behind them. She looked a wreck – a penumbra of her usually stylish self; pale hair swept up into a messy pony tail with wisps darting here and there, the lank droop of dying curls, fingers bearing the distinct bad habit of cuticle biting, make-up a rushed, patchwork job now undone by the sometimes tears that streaked mascara down her cheeks, and eyes puffy and bloodshot from a union of alcohol, wretched news and insomnia. 

_“Thanks for meeting with me, Joseph… I know you have your family and everything, but...”_ she had trailed off, throat choking off other words while fingers tightened against the ceramic cup.

 _“Of course, Audrey. Mary’s with the kids, she understands and sends her condolences,”_ he’d assured her before reaching out a sympathetic hand to pat one, thin wrist. _“Felicity is family, Audrey. Family looks out for one another, supports one another.”_ He removed his hand from her once she perked up a bit. _“You, Waylon, your parents… You aren’t alone in your grief. Mary, the kids, me… Devastated, Audrey, truly devastated.”_

He hadn’t been sure how much she bought the concept of Mary being that undone by what had happened to her daughter, but she didn’t show that she doubted his words. Audrey just looked out the window at the shops and businesses near The Coffee Spoon. Her silence had lasted a while before she coughed a dry chuckle sans humor.

 _“For the longest time, I couldn’t wrap my head around why you would have wanted to live down here. I kept telling myself **Joseph Christiansen, living in the humble Bayside? Couldn’t be.** People at the country club were taking bets on how long it would be before you migrated your family up to the Ridge and took your parents home back.”_

Joseph had sipped his coffee and accepted Audrey’s descant for what it was: aversion from the unchangeable and unbearable. He hadn’t offered up any response, defense or comment to her allusion of his past. He’d simply sat back in his chair and maneuvered his attention around the room while she went on.

_“No one’s living in it, you know? Your father seemed pretty dynastic about it going to you and your family when he passed. Seems a pity it should just sit there, empty…”_

_“I’m happy where I am, Audrey. The space is far outweighed by the cost of the upkeep. Besides, it’s too far from the church I work at.”_

She’d laughed again and looked his way, smirking. _“Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. What a blindside career move for the separatist, heart-breaker **Smooth** Joe Christiansen. I always figured you’d be running a Fortune 500 company, or a commune, with that charisma of yours.”_

He recalled his brows shooting up while he smiled, then chuckled and pushed his coffee away. _“What can I say? I’m a changed man, Audrey. Unashamedly lackluster and suburban now. But we’re not here to talk about me, or the past. We’re here about and for Felicity. Whatever you need for her, Audrey, just let me know. But…”_ he had changed his tone to something that mimicked the hard-nosed approach he took when his troop of children were out of line, _“Leave the past just that, Audrey. I’m not the same boy who left all those years ago. I don’t particularly care what the old men at the country club, or their wives, have to say about me and I surely could care less what happens to the house. If the neighbors are so concerned, tell them to hire a realtor.”_

 _“Hmph. Fine. I’ll let my parents know.”_ Then she became quiet again, holding her chin in one hand as she stared into her coffee. _“There are a couple of things you could do. It would be a lot of help…”_

Joseph had nodded, glad she had respected his boundaries. _“Of course. Anything. What do you need?”_

Audrey fidgeted again and abandoned the mug to twirl her hair around her fingers – no doubt where Felicity had picked up the habit. _“Lissy, she was...is friend’s with that goth boy, still...right?”_

_“Lucien Bloodmarch?”_

_“I think so. If he’s the one that lives in your little neighborhood.”_

_“Yes. He and his father Damien,”_ Joseph had motioned to the room behind them where Damien and a few of the other fathers from the cul de sac were sitting and joining in on the entertainment, _“They live a couple of doors down from Mary and me. Why do you ask?”_

Audrey had hesitated, abandoned her hair to rub her arm as if she were already embarrassed by the words yet to come from her mouth. _“Could you… I mean, do you mind telling them what happened?”_

_“…Why?”_

_“Well, I don’t really know them. I know Lissy was very close to the boy, fond of his father… I know she spent a lot of time at their home…”_ now she was rambling for excuses.

Truth was, Audrey was struggling with her own guilt when it came to the Bloodmarches. She knew exactly who they were because Damien used to live on the Ridge before moving to the cul de sac. It had been Felicity who’d told him that, not information Damien volunteered. Damien was not the sort of man to offer up personal stories, though he abounded in Victorian facts Joseph accepted with a tight smile, but cared nothing for. In all honesty, Joseph found Damien and his son creepy. Being polite and good friends with Mary – though he didn’t have the story on that either – were Damien’s redeeming qualities. Lucien had none that Joseph knew of, but was a step above the Vega kid that lived besides the goths. Christiansen never understood how Felicity – model of typical high school prep, outside setter for the volleyball team and honors student – was such good friends with Damien’s son, whose largest goals seemed to be littering his face with as many bits of metal as possible and thickening the black lines around his eyes until he achieved full-raccoon status. He must have made an offhanded comment one day because that’s when Felicity, with drawn and admonishing brows, had explained how she and Lucien had known one another since kindergarten. That boggled Joseph’s mind, because Bloodmarch had arrived to the curved street of Palmatum Circle when Lucien was about eleven. Felicity hadn’t offered specifics, only said that Mr. Bloodmarch had opted to move from the Ridge to the Bayside because of work. Joseph remembered a muted shame change her expression when she said that and hadn’t discussed the matter since.

 _“He might dress like a vampire, Audrey, but the man doesn’t bite,”_ Joseph had attempted to joke to lighten the mood, but it hadn’t worked as Audrey’s face took on the same contrite expression her daughter’s had worn once. Their eyes were so startlingly alike that Joseph had felt his throat tighten.

 _“I just can’t, Joseph. **Please** ,”_she’d begged, _“They deserve to know but I don’t have time for…”_

It was Joseph’s turn to become quiet as he’d watched the group of men he lived around move out of the room where mic night had drawn to a close. He had looked at, and locked eyes with, Damien for a half-second before the other man glanced at who Joseph was sitting with. There had been a flash of tension and anger across Bloodmarch’s typically serene face and Christiansen watched the man murmur something to the others before moving his way to their table. His sudden presence had startled Audrey so badly, she’d knocked her mug and splattered coffee around the table. It caused a small chain reaction of Sella awkwardly rushing in to clean the mess off the floor, rambling anxious words and retreating while Joseph and Damien used small stacks of napkins to mop up the tabletop. Audrey had just sat there, shaking and wringing pale hands in her lap, muttering apology after hushed apology. 

Once everything was clean, dry and thrown away, Damien had looked at Audrey – tension replaced with sympathy from one parent to another – and said, _“I am so sorry to hear about Felicity. Is there any news?”_

Whether what happened next was because Audrey had finally released her pent up emotions or her modus operandi to avoid conversing with Bloodmarch, Joseph hadn’t been sure, but DuPree had burst into hysterical sobs. Those writhing hands had covered her face while her cries took both men by surprise. When Joseph next looked at Bloodmarch, the man had looked ill and clutched the front of his Victorian vest. Feeling irritated by Audrey’s classic way of abdicating responsibility, Joseph had shot the tearful woman a glare before adjusting his expression to address Bloodmarch with a frown.

_“I’ll be over in a little while, Damien. I’ll explain everything. As you can tell, Mrs. DuPree is in no state to…”_

Damien nodded in silent understanding before he turned to leave, but not before setting a hand on Audrey’s shoulder and bending his head low to whisper something in her head. Joseph hadn’t heard what passed between them, but whatever it was it made Audrey go quiet and still. Damien had produced a handkerchief from the depths of his cloak then exited with none of his usual flourish.

Joseph had glanced at his watch, noted the late hour and sighed, _“I hate to cut our time short, Audrey but if I am going to be a harbinger of bad news to Felicity’s closest friend and get home in time to help put the kids down - ”_

She’d looked at him with her tear-stained face, her sniffles cutting her off occasionally, _“T-thank you, Joseph. Really, truly...thank you.”_

 _“Yes, well I did say family supports one another, didn’t I?”_ And he’d shot her his classic smile.

_“You did, but I also know you’re not really doing it for me. Felicity is your family, I’m just her mom and I already know people’s thoughts on that.”_

Joseph had wanted to roll his eyes. Audrey had a terrible habit of making everything about herself. His patience for the current situation was wasting away. Yes, he had been willing to do what she asked on her daughter’s behalf because Felicity had spent the last six years in his house more than the one Audrey owned in the illustrious North Ridge Estates. Yes, Joseph had judged Audrey as harshly as she accused others of doing because… well, his reasons were his own. He had changed the subject while rising from the table, _“Is there anything else you need for Felicity, Audrey?”_

She’d started sobering up once he’d made it clear he was leaving and decided it was best to make her own exit as she’d gathered her purse and stood. _“Yes. The candlelight vigil. I’m sure you know my parents are behind that.”_

_“A thoughtful gesture on their part.”_

_“If you’re into that kind of thing. I’m not sure my daughter would have approved, but I don’t suppose she has a vote, now does she?”_ Audrey’s tone had suddenly taken a knife edge.

Joseph had escorted her to the door, held it open for her while offering Mat a goodbye wave before taking his leave. _“I don’t see anything to do with candles being high on Felicity’s list of objections about the world, Audrey. And while there was plenty about your parents she criticized, but I doubt she would complain that her grandparents want to gather people together in support of her own health.”_

_“Yes, well, however she might or might not judge the situation – I have been tasked with asking if you would share a few words at the vigil. No sermon, or anything like that, just… y’know… how you know Felicity, your feelings, all that jazz.”_

Joseph had slid his hands into his pockets and tried to deduce what about this vigil had made Audrey so prickly. _“Of course. I’m leading the memorial service for Sam Brightwell, but I would be more than happy to speak at the vigil, too.”_

_“Brightwell…”_ Audrey had started then shook her head and thanked Joseph before pressing a dry peck to his cheek. _“You’re a good friend, Joseph. I’ll see you Friday at five then.”_

__

__

Joseph had watched until she’d slid behind her steering wheel and peeled off, leaving him in the fumes of her exhaust. Not waiting to watch her car disappear, he’d turned and marched back to his cul de sac – where the Bloodmarches awaited the news he brought with a heavy chest and tense hands.  


* * *

Lucien remembered it. As he watched Joseph Christian make himself comfortable at the head of a church not his own, his mind wandered to a few nights ago when his father had come home with a demeanor that made Lucien’s stomach tighten. 

Though he had watched the news and knew about the accident, he immediately assumed some asshole had said or done something to upset his father. He had been ready to slash some tires or bust a nose… but the thought of having to go back to therapy for that kind of aggressive impulsivity made him stop short. Instead, he’d focused on interrogating his father about what was wrong. Like a second shadow, Lucien had followed his father about until, finally, the older man slumped on a couch with a glass of wine in his hand. Damien had just arrived at the part where he approached Felicity’s mother when sharp raps against the front door drew his attention away. Lucien had watched his father’s lip thin before he excused himself to answer the door, instructing Lucien to stay seated. When he came back, Joseph Christiansen was in tow and both took a seat across from Lucien. He knew then that whatever came next didn’t bode well.

Christiansen’s words now fell on similarly oppositional ears as when he had explained to Lucien that Felicity was in a coma. The knot of anxiety that she had died might’ve been gone, but he wasn’t sure if coma was necessarily better. When Christiansen had brought up the candlelight vigil, Lucien had just remained silent while looking down at the black lacquer of his nails and thinking how much she hated the glossy finish… how they had spent ten solid minutes bickering about whether or not black polish with subtle sparkle would fit the goth style. Looking at them now while the youth pastor spoke, Lucien figured having a little glint amongst the black – some stars twinkling in the night – wouldn’t have been a huge sacrifice after all… if it meant he could go back in time and undo it, stop the fighting between them. Or, if it meant she would come back.

He heard the distant words of ‘Let us pray’ and lowered his head with everyone else. Neither he nor his father were religious, but he knew Damien would take the opportunity to mindfully reflect – maybe send good vibes – on Felicity. Lucien was just grateful for a reason to hide his face. He didn’t hear Christiansen’s words. All he noticed was the multitude of bracelets looping his wrist, that fucking nail polish and how it felt when warm tears slid down his cheeks and plinked as salty raindrops against his pants.

* * *

**A/N:** I will go on record as saying I don't care for Waylon. He was entirely too obtrusive about being written. He is a smarmy grapenut and I don't like him, but there he is. In my head, he and Audrey were quite made for each other - unfortunately for their children.


	3. Therapy

Lucien sat opposite the third therapist he’d seen in the last five weeks.

 

While Damien was understanding and lenient in terms of his son figuring things out for himself, not pressuring Lucien into anything that might make his son resentful or damage their relationships, he put his foot down after the spat between Lucien and Ernest at the vigil.

 

“ _I understand your reticence to participate in therapeutic services, son, but I believe we both recognize we are passed pretending you can handle this struggle on your own.”_

 

“ _I am **not** talking to some quack about my feelings! Forget it! All I did was snap at Ernest. It’s Ernest for fuck’s sake! He pisses people off because he gets a hard-on for emotional chaos. **He’s** the one who needs therapy, not me! All his daddy issues…”_

 

“ _Lucien, I wish you wouldn’t curse in our home.”_ Damien had sighed heavily, pinched the bridge of his nose, _“I’m not Ernest’s father, so I will leave service recommendations up to Hugo. However, I do know that while you and Ernest are not bosom buddies, I was under the impression you two had the capacity to be cordial with one another.”_

 

Lucien had scoffed, _“Ernest is friendly and comes around when he wants me to do his schoolwork for him.”_ Damien had balked, but he continued, _“When he pays, dad, I don’t ask questions. I figured it was one more way he was sticking it to his dad. Jokes on him, I barely do my work...not going to do work for someone else.”_

 

His father had simply shook his head with another exasperated exhale. _“That is another matter for another time. The matter remains that you threatened Ernest then disrupted the vigil of your own good friend - ”_

 

“ _He insulted her!”_ Lucien had shocked himself with how instantly defensive and irate he became.

 

His father had just stared for a long time, allowing the atmosphere between them to calm back down before breaking the silence, _“Lucien, this is precisely why you’re going to therapy, why there is no room for debate. Your love for - ”_

 

“ _I’m not in love with her!”_ He had actually torpedoed out of his seat, fists clenching. Why did everyone assume just because they were close, they looked out for one another that it equated to some Romeo and Juliet bullshit romance?

 

Damien does not often become angry – aside from blatant misrepresentations of Victorian culture – and Lucien knows this because anger played a significant role in his early life and prior to his conception. But Damien’s face was something to be respected as it appropriately contained its ire in lieu of being sympathetic for his son. _“I was not implying romance between you and Felicity, Lucien. There are_ _ **many**_ _kinds of love, son – romantic being only one of those. And while you may have no amorous intent toward her, I know you love her very much. You cherish her because, despite what happened all those years ago, she remained a true and loyal friend to you. As far as I know and have witnessed, she has never judged us for our lifestyles. She has never admonished you for how you choose to express yourself… only that, like myself, you become someone of character. I also know,”_ he had paused to stand and approach Lucien, clutching his shoulder tenderly. He hadn’t realized he had started twitching in an attempt not to cry. His father had ended with, _“She loves you, too.”_

 

So, here he was. Slumped in an old leather couch that smelled of the middle-aged men who occupied it hour in and hour out to deal with their mid-life crises. The psychologist was yammering on and on about the different stages of grief – as if Lucien was not acquainted with them. He talked about his experience working with the grieving, the different grief groups available to clients and how Lucien might benefit from the power of corporate healing. Lucien had sneered at the concept of _corporate healing_. If he couldn’t handle his own shit, what made this shrink think taking on the shit of others was going to magically make him better. This was the second session and already Lucien was ready to fire the guy. He was obeying his father in that he was “giving them a chance” but he remained resolute in the belief that there wasn’t anyone he really wanted to work with.

 

This guy shot himself in the foot at the first session when he administered Lucien an assessment consisting of more than four hundred fucking questions and gave Lucien an inquisitive look...or rather, gave Lucien’s attire, piercings and black nails an appraising leer that pricked Bloodmarch’s temper. He didn’t give a crap about the assessment, what it might’ve said about him – had he _bothered_ to actually read a majority of the questions before answering – or this psychologist’s _expertise_ in the field of grief.

 

“Look,” Lucien interrupted the man, staring him down, “I’m only here because my dad is concerned for me. I’ll be honest – I don’t really like you, so I don’t see this as being a productive, therapeutic relationship.” The man stammered and Lucien went on, “I’m not saying I’m doing the best, but there is no way in hell I’m talking to _you_ about my feelings or thoughts concerning my _loss_. In fact, I hate that you refer to her as a loss. I haven’t lost her. I know exactly where she is and I see her everyday.”

 

The doctor blinked, glancing down at his clipboard. “E-everyday?”

 

Lucien tensed. “Sorry. Let me correct myself. I _was_ seeing her everyday until her parents moved her to a hospital in Boston because our hospital isn’t good enough for them.”

 

“From what you said on the intake, it seems as though her condition is quite severe. Perhaps they are seeking the best medical care for their daughter?”

 

Lucien wanted to, but couldn’t argue with that logic. He looked away from the man and at the watercolor paintings littering the walls of his very square office.

 

“What I’m hearing is your anger that she has been taken further from you, that you are no longer able to comfort yourself and your anxiety by maintaining regular contact with her and assuring yourself she has not passed on in the night.”

 

Lucien locked narrowed eyes onto the man, watched him flinch. “I don’t visit her to gratify myself,” he seethed, “I go to _talk_ to her. I’m not going to be like everyone else and treat her like a fucking vegetable just because she can’t talk back.”

 

“I-I believe it was mentioned she was entirely unresponsive - ”

 

Lucien stood from his seat. The minute hand on the clock behind the doctor barely grazed the elegant seven in the bottom left-hand curve of the face. He _technically_ hadtwenty minutes left, but felt done with the session.

 

“Mr. Bloodmarch, we haven’t finished our time together.”

 

“I have,” Lucien asserted as he strode for the door.

 

“Young man! I must insist you stay to complete your session. Your father paid for the full hour,” the doctor argued, also rising from his chair.

 

“And I must insist you shut the hell up. I’ll get a job and pay my father back, but I’m not spending another twenty minutes listening to you. I’m sure you’re good with men who’ve lost their wives, gotten divorced or fucked everything up because they can’t keep their dicks in their pants,” his words made the man blanch, “But you don’t have a fucking clue with how to deal with me or my _grief.”_

 

To his credit, Lucien didn’t slam the door this time. He just left it open and the psychologist standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room. When he emerged in the waiting room, he found his father talking to a younger woman, a pamphlet in his hand that he glanced thoughtfully at. Damien looked up, blinked at his son then seemed to deflate. The woman – short, black hair spiked up, a hint of fading color on the tips – swiveled to look in his direction. She was dressed punk-chic and had the glint of a stud on one side of her nose. Her blue eyes measured him from top to bottom, then nodded approvingly.

 

“Nice ornamentation,” she said, motioning to his numerous piercings then motioned to the industrial done on her own ear, a couple of helixes on the other. “Never brave enough to through with anything more than the ears or nose,” she admitted.

 

“I take it, Lucien,” his father started, “The session didn’t go well?”

 

“As well as we anticipated,” Lucien answered as he strolled closer to them.

 

“I believe we anticipated different results, son.”

 

“What’s that?” Lucien changed the subject by motioning to the pamphlet in Damien’s hand.

 

“Oh, Ms. Laird here was explaining the different groups they offer.”

 

Lucien groused, “If I can’t stay for a whole session on my own, I doubt I’d make it through one with others.”

 

“Who said the groups were for you?” the woman – Ms. Laird – said to him. “I was telling your dad that I lead some of the groups for grieving parents.”

 

“You going to join one of these groups?” Lucien asked his father, as if not believing it.

 

“I wanted to know my options, Lucien. You aren’t the only one affected,” Damien answered.

 

“Well, I’m not coming back, so enjoy yourself.”

 

“Well, we didn’t ask you to join, so do us the pleasure of staying home,” Laird sniped, surprising both Bloodmarches. Damien snickered and Lucien just stared at her. She cocked her head a little, “Oh, I’m sorry… was that rude of me? Are you offended?”

 

“I don’t think therapists are allowed to speak to people like that,” Lucien said.

 

“Good thing for me, I’m only an intern. No skin off my nose if I tick another therapist’s client off. From the sound of it, though, you aren’t really a client here since you said you aren’t coming back. You seem pretty irritable already, so why should I be concerned if you leave an ounce angrier than when you arrived?”

 

Lucien looked dumbfounded between his father and this woman, as if asking why Damien wasn’t stepping in and defending his only child? Damien offered him a shrug as his only means of support. Lucien sneered her way. “Not very therapeutic of you.”

 

“Are you going to kill yourself?”

 

“Excuse me?!”

 

Laird studied him seriously. “I mean, did what I say offend you to the point that you are seriously considering ending your own life… engaging in suicidal ideation or self-harm?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, good! Well, Mr. Bloodmarch,” she said as she turned her attention back to Damien, “I hope my explanations were helpful. Like I just mentioned to your son, I’m an intern, so any groups or sessions I run are at a discounted rate. I’m winding up one group of parents and should be starting up another group in about three weeks, if you would like to sign up. I think there are about five slots left.” She motioned to Lucien and he bristled, expecting another tongue lashing. “And if you or he decide he would benefit from group therapy, I run one for teens on Thursday nights from 6 to 7 PM. Dinner is included. Grant funded, so no cost.”

 

Damien stood and shook her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Laird. I will be in touch soon to let you know either way. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

 

“Not a problem, my pleasure entirely,” she answered while giving Damien’s hand a squeeze. Then she turned to Lucien, offering a small nod. “All previous joking aside, if you change your mind, kid – let me or your dad know. I wrote my number on the back of his pamphlet. Like I told your father, therapy isn’t for everyone – the time isn’t right, the therapist isn’t a good fit, the client isn’t a good fit...whatever. Sometimes it just doesn’t fit. In all seriousness, though, if you change your mind, I hope you find what you need. Have a good night, folks!” Then she was gone with a wave, disappearing behind the secure door separating the waiting room from the offices.

 

The Bloodmarches remained silent as they exited the office. Damien waited until they were in the car to say anything, “I’m sorry this one didn’t work out.”

 

“It’s not your fault, dad,” Lucien explained in a softer, slightly guilty, tone, “He just didn’t get it. I didn’t like the vibe he gave off…”

 

“It’s okay, Lucien. I’m not disappointed in you, just myself,” Damien said as he pulled out into traffic and headed home.

 

“What?! Dad, no… Please don’t say that.” Lucien winced, going from slightly to full guilty in an instant.

 

“No, no. I’ve been so frustrated, driving from one counselor to the next – scheduling then canceling appointments.” Damien suddenly chuckled, “I must have given something away because Ms. Laird asked if everything was okay while escorting another patient out. That’s how we got to talking about the groups and she gave me the pamphlet. She was very polite – if you can believe it from the faux criticism she handed you – and, though she didn’t have to, talked with me for a good fifteen minutes because there wasn’t anyone else in the waiting room. She told me she admired my attentiveness to your mental health needs, but that I couldn’t want this more than you and if I kept going – I could potentially do more damage.”

 

“… She shouldn’t have said that to you. She doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know us or what we’re dealing with everyday,” Lucien argued softly.

 

Damien glanced his way, smiled the tender way he did and continued, “I appreciated her honesty, Lucien. And the more I reflected, the more true I found her words. I just want the best for you, son. I hate that you’re suffering and want to do everything in my power to make that pain go away, but Ms. Laird pointed out that everything you’re going through is normal and natural, given the circumstances, and so long as you weren’t hurting yourself, others or property – then there was no, real, emergent need for therapy unless _you_ wanted it. She encouraged me to keep an eye on you, make sure you got enough sleep, ate well, and if you started showing major signs of depression, then be a little firmer about therapy.”

 

Lucien listened to his father while watching other cars and houses go by. The knot that had formed in his belly from the therapy session was beginning to unwind and relax. He was glad his father was relenting on therapy being mandatory, but still aching with remorse that his own stubbornness had caused Damien so much stress – especially after everything his father had done for him over the years, how accepting Damien was and how healthy of a home he had established for his son despite doing it all on his own.

 

“I’m sorry, dad,” he whispered.

 

“Well, I’m sorry for pushing so hard. I don’t want you to resent therapy because I forced you to go, then need it in the future and not utilize it because of me.”

 

Lucien sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. His eyes stung and as they came to a stop, the knot inside snapped apart and he started crying into the heels of his hands. He couldn’t see Damien’s expression, but he did feel the car start back up then pull off to the side somewhere. He heard his father throw the car into park and felt the warmth of Damien’s hand rub wide circles on his back.

 

“Lucien, what’s wrong?!” his father asked, his voice confused but frantic, “Please, son, I told you it’s fine! I’m fine, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Damien attempted to soothe.

 

Lucien heard his cries grow louder – as if he were a spectator outside of his body – and crumpled his body forward. They came in great heaves, his sobs. Starting in the depths of his belly, they trundled up and shattered the back of his teeth, lacerating his throat and sapping him of all his willpower. He could only just remember the last time he had cried like this. Lucien had been smaller then, just barely out of being a toddler.

 

“Lucien…” Damien’s voice was soft, like he was afraid of scaring his son off. He abandoned any attempt to draw Lucien out of his tears until he was ready. He just continued to rotate a soothing palm over his back.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he cried, only that he was exhausted when he finished. He straightened shakily and swiped at his face with frustrated hands. He felt the soft fabric of Damien’s handkerchief wiping his nose and cheeks. Lucien swallowed, felt his throat burn. He looked at his father, noting both concern and relief.

 

“I’m sorry,” he sniffed again, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“It’s okay, son. Crying is a good thing. I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, but I want to make sure you know you have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

 

Lucien shook his head slowly and dropped his gaze to eyeliner stained hands. “You’re wrong, dad.”

 

“What do you mean?” Damien’s question was tentative and gentle.

 

“It has to do with Felicity. Ernest brought it up at the church… The fight we had,” Lucien swallowed, pained to remember it, “I didn’t get to apologize before…” He slammed his eyes shut and pounded a fist against his knee.

 

“Oh, Lucien… You can’t blame yourself for that.”

 

“I don’t blame myself for the accident, dad. I just can’t stop thinking that if she never wakes up… if she,” he stopped himself with a shake of his head and opened his eyes to look at his father, “I don’t want her to go thinking I hated her. I want her to know how sorry I am! And then these smarter-than-you doctors want to talk about grief and the second they bring her up – I just can’t!”

 

Damien was silent for a short while before suddenly pulling Lucien into a tight embrace. “I’m sure she knows, son.”

 

Lucien felt new tears well up and they remained that way for a long time – father comforting son from his deep-seated regrets and shame. After he had calmed and cleaned his face for the second time, he clipped himself back into his seat belt and gave his father the green light to continue driving. Just before they arrived at home, he said, “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to call that lady.

* * *

“So, you’re moving her to Boston?” Joseph asked as he sat across from Audrey in her spacious living room.

 

“Yes, Massachusetts General. They have this laboratory for neuro-imaging… Some of the best doctors in the treatment of comas and traumatic brain injury,” Audrey answered, eyes on the swirling caramel-colored liquid in her highball glass.

 

“That’s excellent,” he said. “She deserves the best care possible. When is she being moved? I want to make sure the kids get to see her one more time.”

 

Audrey blinked at him – maybe a few too many times, giving away how quickly the liquor had hit her bloodstream. Joseph was conditioned to notice the subtle signs of inebriation, courtesy of his wife. “One more time? Joseph, you and your family are welcome to visit her any time! I put you on the approved guest list.”

 

He nodded and sipped his water. “Thank you. That means quite a lot, Audrey. I promise we won’t be too intrusive. I’ll make sure to let you know when we plan on visiting, just in case...medical procedures take priority.”

 

“You, intrusive?” She chuckled. “It’s not like you visit _every_ day, hours on end.”

 

Joseph studied her, curious what she meant. “Well, no, of course not. I do have a job, even if it is with the church. And the kids _are_ a little much for the hospital. I think every day might even be too much for Felicity.”

 

“Do you mind relaying that message to Damien’s son?” Another swirl of the whiskey, another sip and cluck of her tongue. “I know he and Lissy were close, but I think he’s creepy. He sits there, doing nothing but talking,” she cut herself off with another swig. When she spoke again, her voice was full of drunken speculation, “For all I know, he put a hex on that car and _that’s_ why my daughter is in a coma.”

 

Christiansen stared at her a long time, trying to make sense out of what he was hearing. When he broke the silence, his tone had shifted considerably, “It was an _accident_ , Audrey.”

 

“Then why is he there _every_ damn day?! You wanna know why? Because he’s guilty! He cast some spell and - ”

 

“Audrey!” Joseph snapped at her. “It was an _accident_! A boy lost his life and your daughter is in a coma because the roads were slick, the car lost control and hit the side of the clock tower… because of an accident, not occult voodoo!”

 

She had started to shake and slammed the highball against the coffee table. “Then maybe it’s my family… _me_ that’s cursed! I lose my firstborn, my son to an _accident_ and now a second _accident_ has robbed me of my daughter! Maybe this is my punishment for being a horrible mother.”

 

“Not everything is about _you_ , Audrey!” Joseph stood up, disgusted by her selfishness – though he was not surprised by it. “Tragedy happens. It doesn’t discriminate and it isn’t _punishment_. Maybe you are a horrible mother, but what happened to Felicity has nothing to do with _you_.”

 

Angry, but deflated and drunk, Audrey reached for her drink again. Her eyes misted over with tears as she stared at, but did not partake of, her cocktail. “Then tell me, _pastor…_ what do you suggest I do with all these unanswered questions ricocheting inside my head? What do I do with this burning desire to hold _someone_ accountable for what happened to my Lissy?”

 

Now it was Joseph’s turn to depress. He lowered himself to the edge of his seat. “I would suggest you not drink so much. Alcohol helps nothing, least of all grief.” Joseph paused as a certain neighbor of his came to the forefront of his mind… then his own wife with her glass always full of ruddy vintage. “For what it’s worth, you may benefit from professional counseling. No one can give you answers, Audrey, because you already know what there is to be known. As for assigning blame...” He drifted off while staring at the condensation accumulating on his water glass, “Blaming anyone – Lucien, yourself, the occult – won’t heal your daughter, Audrey.” Joseph sighed and ran a hand through his hair, lifting his eyes to look at her. “Move her because she needs the medical treatment, not because her closest friend makes you uncomfortable. He’s grieving. He wants solace just as much as you do and maybe he thinks talking to her will bring him that, will make her better. Don’t penalize him for something he wouldn’t have wanted in a million years.”

 

He watched Audrey’s head droop toward her chest, the sound of soft cries not far behind. Joseph gave her the space she needed, reached over to take her highball glass before grabbing his own and retreating to the kitchen to dump both drinks. The chorus of her mourning followed him and he took a moment to lean against the cold granite of the counter, spared a glance around the room – the decorations and pictures. Those littering the refrigerator caught his attention.

 

Approaching the stainless steel appliance, he scanned the photos clinging by a variety of different magnets. Joseph removed one nestled between a To Do list dated a week before the accident and a crayon-scribbled picture that could only have been composed by a child of his – or so he wanted to assume because it brought him his own sensation of comfort.

 

The picture starred three toe-headed replicas of himself clamoring around a sun-kissed teen clad in swimwear and over-sized sunglasses. All four showed evidence of a day well spent: Christie snug in Felicity’s lap, beach towel wrapping her like a tortilla; Christian hugging one teenage bicep while occupying as much territory of Felicity’s thigh he could without ensuing a war with his twin; and, last but not least, Christopher – smile broad, uncharacteristic but genuine – with arms looping her neck, chin nestled on the tawny crown. Water speckled and dribbled – frozen forever in time with the press of his finger – from braids, cheeks and elbows. The slightest hint of pink was emerging on the noses of the twins while Felicity’s freckles became dark constellations on her shoulders. Lake water shimmered in the background, a toppled over sand bucket off to one side – the shovel clutched between Christie’s chubby hands. His thumb and forefinger tightened as he remembered the day – how it started and how it ended. The picture seized somewhere in the middle.

 

The only thing suspect about the photo was the marked absence of two other individuals. Crish, Joseph remembered, had been snoozing in his bouncer beneath the umbrella just behind him. Mary hadn’t come. Joseph closed his eyes and when he did, he could smell the water, sand and sunscreen; he could feel the heat from the partly cloudy summer sky and hear the squeals and cries of excitement from his older three as they splashed in the water and dug in the sand. He could hear her voice, clear and delighted, from just over his shoulder.

 

“ _Oh, that turned out great! You should get that one framed when we get home.”_

 

“ _You think? There’s some glare and - ”_

 

“ _Mr. Christiansen, they have photoshop for that. I mean **look** at that,” _ Felicity had emphasized while reaching over his shoulder to point at the picture on his cell screen, _“They’re so happy. You’d never believe, based on this picture, that they fight like cats and dogs. If you don’t frame it, you’ll never have any proof your kids are capable of civility.”_

 

“ _Ha! Good point,” Joseph agreed. “It’s thanks to you, you know. They love you. You could ask them to bury their heads in the sand or eat earthworms and they’d do it.”_

 

“ _While I think they’d rather bury one another, I’ll try to reign that power in and use it for the forces of good,” she’d giggled before turning to Crish, “Too bad this little guy was sleeping.”_

 

“ _Credit that to yourself, too. He doesn’t even sleep this well for me.” And, as if he had jinxed it, Crish had started squirming and fussing._

 

“ _Oooohhh, that’s not true,” Felicity had countered in that lullaby accent reserved for the baby, “Is it, Robbie?” Because she only ever called the baby by his middle nickname – Robbie, short for Robert – “You sleep for everyone, all the time, because that’s all you do.”_

 

_He had chuckled because, to prove his father right, Crish had drifted off with a few precise rocks. She had shot him a triumphant look over her shoulder, smirked and said, “Well, maybe I do have a special touch.”_

 

“That was one of her favorite pictures,” Audrey’s voice came suddenly from behind him and Joseph nearly lept out of his skin. She moved to his side, looking at the picture in his hand, eyes still a little damp. “She was so happy when you gave her that copy. I think it she retold the story every chance she got, for anyone who would listen.”

 

Joseph smiled softly, rubbing the picture with his thumb and said, “It was a good day. You’d never know fifteen minutes later, we’d be running for cover. We were all having so much fun, we didn’t notice the storm rolling in from behind us.”

 

“Felicity said you joked that she ought to have quit volleyball and join the track team,” Audrey emitted a teary chuckle.

 

“The girl could sprint with a kid beneath each arm. I was impressed.” He sighed and clipped the picture beneath its magnet once more. “I never thanked you for letting us borrow your parent’s lake house that day.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Audrey confessed, “Lissy _borrowed_ the house keys from my parents without asking. She made the solid argument that they were on a cruise anyway, so they would never know. And it was just for the day.”

 

Joseph snickered and shook his head. “A clever one, your daughter.”

 

Audrey frowned, eyes roaming over all the pictures decorating her fridge. The majority were of Felicity and the kids in varying settings – playground, aquarium, the Christiansen home – or her and the Bloodmarch pair. Few had she and her mother, but Joseph assumed those were framed and hanging on the walls somewhere. “Seems like she’s more your daughter than mine sometimes...” Audrey said quietly, ashamedly.

 

Christiansen shook his head. “While I certainly consider her a fifth member of the clan and, I won’t lie, have tried to be a solid, male role model for her – I’ve never taken the liberty of pretending she wasn’t _yours_. She loves you, Audrey… very much.”

 

She nodded, but Joseph interpreted it as an obligatory move of the head to be respectful not that she actually believed his words entirely. Did she know her daughter loved her? Yes, more than likely because Felicity _did_. Did she always admire Audrey or respect her? Probably not, because she had said on more than one occasion how she wished her mother would set aside some of her career duties to spend more time at home. But the comfort – near luxury – Felicity lived in when she was not occupying space in the Christiansen home was, in part, thanks to Audrey’s hard work and her daughter was thankful for that. Still, young DuPree had longed for the mother-daughter relationship her friends and those at school seemed to have. Though not through personal experience, Joseph knew how hard it was to be a kid living on North Ridge coming from a non-traditional family; and in _those_ parts, that meant coming from a divorced or single-parent home. Maybe the mutual knowledge Audrey and Joseph shared growing up on the Ridge played an additional role in the guilt she felt – that she had saddled her only child with a stigma most others in that part of town barely survived.

 

Audrey reached out to stroke pale fingers along another picture – one of Felicity and Lucien, taken a few months ago, at the most. Wherever they were, Joseph didn’t recognize but the smile on Lucien’s face was eerily out of the ordinary. Smirks or sullen frowns. Those were the expressions Joseph was accustomed to seeing Lucien wear. A full on smile was something for the ages. Audrey was focused on her daughter, though. “It isn’t fair…” she breathed and unclipped the picture from the fridge.

 

“No, it most definitely is not. But we can’t lose hope, Audrey,” Joseph encouraged with a squeeze of her shoulder.

 

She didn’t answer right away, just shook her head and wiped at her eyes with her free hand. After collecting herself, she turned and apologized, “Sorry for what I said earlier… about Lucien. I’m just so angry.” She swallowed, “And scared. I try to stay optimistic – like Waylon has _suddenly_ become – but everyday she doesn’t come round… Everyday she remains in her coma, I feel like I am just waiting out the inevitable.”

 

“Audrey - ”

 

“No, _please_ , let me say this. I’ve been holding it in, gripping it so tight – afraid if I say anything, it will come true,” she rushed. “I’m _terrified_. I try to work, try to eat, try to sleep… but I’m just so scared of getting _that_ phone call. Of having to plan another funeral for someone I should never have outlived.” Her breathing quivered and she fought off another round of tears. She extended the picture to him. “Please, give this to Lucien. She would want him to have it, if he doesn’t already… And tell him he is welcome to visit her in Boston. Bring him with your family, if you want.”

 

Joseph took the picture as though it were some fragile relic, looking between the photograph and the mother. He nodded, “I’ll make sure he gets it, and I’ll let him know about Boston. But, Audrey, please consider my suggestion of counseling… you can’t just waste away, waiting for a phone call that might never come.”

 

As she showed him to the front door, she made a small, conciliatory sound. “I will think about it. Thank you for coming over, Joseph. I promise, I won’t keep snatching you away from your family.”

 

Christiansen shook his head. “No problem, truly. My role as a youth minister dictates my attendance to families in need… I think it’s written in the rule book,” he joked ever so.

 

Audrey cracked a bit of a smirk, but it was quick to fade. “Yes, well, I will keep you informed… but,” she started then that, too, died down.

 

Joseph read her body language, heard the tone in her voice and offered one, curt bend of his head. “But me coming around has worn out its usefulness? It’s okay to say it, Audrey. My presence is kicking up a lot of stuff for you when it comes to Felicity. I’ll respect that. If you need anything, from now on, I’ll send Mary or a neighbor.”

 

Audrey’s eyes went wide at the mention of his wife coming around. Then they softened, relieved he had read between the lines and she hadn’t been forced to feel more guilt about potentially blaming _him_ or his relationship with her daughter as the reason she fell to pieces – peace that the person who made her feel like a wretched parent would be a safe distance away once more, even if she had been the one to request meeting with him in the first place.

 

Joseph held up the photo. “Thank you for this. Lucien will really appreciate it, I’m sure. Best of luck Audrey, truly,” he said as he departed with a wave. If he had been the honest one, he was more than ready to get out of the Ridge as fast as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As a therapist, I can say some of the things Laird pipes out would NOT SIT WELL, but I figured she is the brand of counselor Lucien would actually work with because she doesn't take crap, is authentic and respects his father. Also, I really enjoyed writing the scene where Lucien breaks down, because I love how emotionally supportive Damien is as a father and wanted an opportunity to show a glimpse of what it would be like for Lucien's prickly exterior to come crashing down and how Damien would hold it all together. Just love those two!


	4. Dreams

Lucien Bloodmarch doesn’t really dream. Maybe it’s his brain’s way of avoiding the various anxieties that have accumulated over the years. Or his gray matter wasn’t creative enough to imagine up anything for him to distract his sleeping self with. But as the days of Felicity’s coma turned into weeks, and weeks into months, his brain seemed to change its mind about dreaming.

 

Maybe it was because he was losing hope.

 

Maybe it was because he was actually _participating_ in therapy, finding it useful ever since he started working with someone as snarky as himself.

 

Maybe it was because he was helping his father arrange bouquet after bouquet of Peruvian lilies, anemones, chrysanthemum, and lilacs stuffed and held together by congregations of Queen Anne’s lace and Forget Me Nots.

 

Damien was better about the whole flowers-meaning-something thing. He just figured that Felicity’s room could do with color and life. Lucien, whose visits had been cut significantly since the DuPrees moved her to Boston, hated the sick pallor of the wall paint, the sterile scent of the room and hallways and – above else – the litters of framed photos. Felicity loved to take pictures, but found framed photos crowding. She only framed those she treasured most, but a great majority of the pictures he encountered in her room were ones donated by the Christiansens… because most of them were of her and the kids. Lucien often ended up shoving them aside or stuffing them into drawers to make room for the bouquets. Then he would sit and read to her – not the boring shit they assigned in school, but novels he knew she enjoyed. Sometimes, unfortunately, those things overlapped and he let her know how disgruntled he was that he was meeting academic expectations when his real intent was to entertain her.

 

Six months of weekly visits, but no noticeable improvement aside from the initial tubing being removed after she demonstrated the ability to breathe on her own. Though the nurses seemed to find it gallant of him, he picked up on the sympathy in their eyes every time he turned into her room – the soft side glances and the tension in their necks as they kept themselves from shaking their heads with pity. He would never let them know how much it wore him down, too. How each visit just frustrated him more. How his grip on the expectancy of her waking slipped finger by finger.

 

The only person who knew these feelings was bound by confidentiality. Lucien didn’t even tell his father about the negativity brimming inside him. He didn’t want Damien to feel he was wasting his time and money taking Lucien back and forth to Boston, nor did he want his father to feel obligated to inspire him with optimism.

 

Maybe this is why he had begun to dream and _remember_ that which he dreamed. Very few things about the dreams confused him – there were no symbols too obscure for him to discern if he gave them a moment’s attention the next day. If anything, the dreams made him anxious. Lucien could feel the churning and tightening of his stomach as he moved through his unconscious imagination.

 

When he dreams, he always starts in the same place – the spacious interior of an abandoned, Gothic cathedral. Lucien can hear the sound of Latin choirs but there is no one around them. The pews are empty and everything seems like its shrouded in shadow or gray film. There are stained glass windows of muted tones. Instead of depicted Biblical story scenes, these windows outline major events from the life shared between Felicity and himself. As Lucien strolls through the church, he stops by each window – removing a splinter from her thumb in Kindergarten, his departure from the Ridge at the end of fifth grade, awkward middle school dances… There are windows yet to be stained, to be shaped into part of their narrative. But there is one mirror he can barely approach. He feels a knife in his chest when he comes to the window cracking from side to side.

 

They are standing on opposite sides of the window – a pane per person – backs to each other. They don’t look like themselves, but he knows its them. On the right, he stands – adorned in onyx armor with gauntlet-coated hands resting atop the pommel of a sword. There is blood coating one edge of the blade, sliding down the metal and staining the ground around him – killing off the fauna at his feet, turning the terrain drab with the decay of curling vegetation and sloughing foliage. The partner pane of colored glass depicted similar blight, but with crumbling towers and mangled foundations. There she stands, garbed in similar Medieval fashion of muted goldenrod dress with a gray hennin and matching, jeweled girdle looping her waist and dangling down her front - they gleam red and bright. One hand covered her face, tears forming a somber set of jewels against her skin, while the other held a bleeding heart. His ears ache with the echoes of her sobs. There is something between them, but he cannot make out what it is because this is where the window has been shattered and sent fissures across the glass – implying the entire scene could fall apart at any moment, with the wrong move or vibration.

 

He is anxious to walk away but has no desire to look upon the image any more. Lucien travels up the remainder of the nave, stopping amidst the choir. There is only one window left to observe and it is the great Catherine window high above the alter. This is the only object of vivid color within the entirety of the church. There is no Virgin, Days of Creation or Last Judgment orbiting this window.

 

The center is occupied by a single, motionless star. About it are swirls of other heavenly bodies, beasts and Zodiacs foreign to every nation. There are twin men attached by their skull – never to see one another; a peacock, opulent feathers splayed, with his head turn toward the twins; a woman both goddess and saint, mighty scepter in one hand and prayer beads in the other, laurel wreath and sacred halo adorning her head; a figure cloaked and hooded, lamplight barely visible, gazing toward the canonized deity. Rays of light breaking through shades of twilight. There is an arwen, its three beams gleaming; an illuminated fount burbling violet waters at the feet of the goddess. There are constellations swirling, ocean waves crashing and the sky alight with electric bolts.

 

It is a story. One which he knows when he’s there, but forgets upon waking. Forgets once he leaves the church and enters gardens not unlike the one his father lovingly tends. There are flowers of every variety – ones he has no names for – growing and manipulated into a maze of technicolor. He feels like Alice in the Queen of Heart’s garden – hedges and flowers but no cards painting them red. If they were red, yellow, blue, whatever… they stayed that way. He hears voices from the midst of the flowers – soft, feminine sounds lilting through the petals and leaves.

 

He felt his stomach tighten with anxiety. The closer he came, the tighter his body tensed.

 

The domed top of a stone garden pavilion came into view as he followed the always turning direction of the gravel, spiral path. His heart was ricocheting against the solid barriers of his sternum and ribs. He heard their laughter, or maybe it was a sob, and he almost doubled over to vomit. When he emerged through the hedges to see the pavilion in the middle of a manicured lawn. The silhouette of two women were recognizable by tone, though their backs were to him. One was a melody of old – familiar as the bones in his body or the skin stretched above them. Another was new, but a few months old to his brain – which struggled to grasp how these two had come together. Why were they talking? _What_ could they possibly have to talk about?

 

His anxiety continued to mount as he attempted to approach them and found he could not come any closer than the edge of the lawn. And no matter how fast he ran about the pavilion, their backs rotated with him and their faces remained out of his sight. So close but too far to discern their conversation aside from laughs, cries or gasps of shock. His stomach was churning miserably. _Please don’t talk with_ _ **her**_ _. Please don’t bring it up… Please. Please!_ And, as if she heard him – the auburn head started to turn but before he even saw her eyes, Lucien woke up covered in sweat, heart attempting to break out of its confinement.

* * *

 

When the father dreams, he dreams of open seas at night fall- a single star gleaming on the horizon. He is the captain of an empty vessel that propels itself forward, no thanks to him. He stands at the prow of the ship, one hand measuring the sky while the other clings to the helm. He is certain his boat is going in wide, slow circles but there is nothing he feels he can do to stop it. All he can do is keep the star in his sights and his hand on the wheel.

 

The waves are glassy. They reflect more than the stars, he realizes when he makes the mistake of glancing down. He sees himself, but not as he actually is. He witnesses his children, faces shrouded by cloth – one black, another gray – and hands full of broken things. Broken glass, broken liquor bottles, broken promises… He sees Audrey dressed in white, decaying bouquet in her hands and wedding band choking her throat. He watches his parents as disapproving bobble heads, scowls permanently plastered on their faces. In his stomach, he knows his sailing on a sea of his own failures.

 

Scenes undulate on the mirror surface too quick, too slow to fully understand. A sandcastle house in Charleston washing away with the tide. A masked youth in top hat and four-piece suit clawing a hole in his chest. A marionette dancing, dancing, dancing -red twine falling from between twirling legs. A chameleon beast throwing up bones into shallow graves wherever he goes.

 

The images, some too blurred to name, swirl, spin and constrict. He feels as if the weight of them is choking. He doesn’t realize he’s suffocating until he is hauled back by a firm grip on his shoulder. Coughing and sputtering echoes around him – the sound of his survival. The fingers release him and he waits for the world to be a less damp, twisting place before he looks at who saved him from what he didn’t know was fatal. The man is tall with wide shoulders, tones arms crossing a matching chest – face shadowed by the starlight behind him. When had the star gotten that bright? The father stood and saw the man had auburn hair, a severe look on his face… a face that mimicked his own. He felt his throat tighten, but before he could utter a name, the man spoke.

 

“Can’t look back.”

 

“Pardon?” he asked, voice high and tight.

 

The man’s chin jutted toward the ocean and he said, “If you look back, you’ll drown.”

 

He glanced over his shoulder, thought he heard a scream burble up from the depths, but whether it was of fear, pain or please, he couldn’t tell. He felt the hand on his shoulder again and looked back at the man. He was guided back to the wheel.

 

“Stay straight. Stay focused and you’ll never lose your way,” the man said while steering the boat toward that stalled star.

 

“But...what - ”

 

“They don’t matter. Phantoms. Illusions. Mirages. _Distractions_ ,” the man emphasized with disgust.

 

“They tried to kill me.”

 

“Regrets always do,” the man sighed and handed the helm back over.

 

He took the wheel then looked at the man. “I’m no good at this. You should - ”

 

“I _can’t_ ,” he argued back, “Not anymore. Stop turning in circles. Stop hunting ghosts. Stay straight. Stay focused.”

 

“Ja - ”

 

“Oh, and don’t fuck this up old man.”

 

Then Waylon woke up.

* * *

 

_When he dreams, he hears the voices. Ebbing in and fading out. Coaxing and condemning all in one. They are androgynous, soft-screaming bursts inside his head – driving him on, demanding and hungry. In his dreams, he wonders where his pills are and why he had not taken them. In his dreams, though, he has no difficulty giving into the bidding the voices require. They are terrifying intoxication and he does not want to drown them in a sea of poison. He **becomes** without the pills…_

 

_He slumps against walls, older than time, with painted hands._

 

_He melts into shadow and bays at the moon._

 

_His fingers molest the sanctity of immobile stars sleeping in the cradle of the heavens. Scattering constellations, he smothers their light and plunges the cosmos into indefinite night._

 

_He pushes against supple obstructions; pries apart sacred, vestal gates and forces himself along tight passageways. Again. And again. And again – so close and yet missing his mark. Heaving breath and aching haunt him along the way – mingling with the voices in a horrific, passionate chorus that cuts him short._

 

_He is a hunter, a beast with sanguine teeth nosing a budding reservoir for its secrets – contaminating lambent waters with the virulent drippings of his jowls._

 

_But, in the mirrors – he is a ghost. He is a decrepit thing he cannot stomach. Behind him hover the **eyes**. And then the voices are gone because he is screaming. Screaming and smashing the mirrors with his fists, his whole body, until they ooze phlegm and bile in shades of onyx-banded dandelions. There is neither honey nor alcohol to balm these wounds… nothing to numb that which has been roused in his breast._

 

He wakes with a sheen of sweat over his face and chest before putting the mirrors back together. He looks around the room as reality begins to sew itself back into frame. With a groan and a throbbing headache, he slides from his bed – sheets now damp with perspiration – and slithers into the bathroom where the burnt orange bottle sits, waiting for him. Not wanting to turn the light on, should that ramshackle ghoul be there to stare back at him, he fumbles around in his shaving bag as quietly as he can. Drawing out the bottle, he presses into the lid with a sigh and twists sharply.

 

He returns to bed after popping two pills and downing a shot of vodka he keeps in the same kit.


	5. Jace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I included a POV from Christian because I don't think we get a look into why he might be so surly in the game (unless the cult ending counts and I'm not sticking any beloved limb within miles of that arguments), so I wanted to try and get his perspective on why he feels and acts the way he does based on my universe and current circumstances. All in all, I really like the kid.
> 
> So, music really inspired the development of this chapter. I'll explained more specifically in the end note, but the suggested playlist (if you want it and, in no particular order) is:  
> Tsimtsum from the Life of Pi  
> The Second Story from Life of Pi  
> Rue's Farewell by James Newton Howard from the Hunger Games Soundtrack  
> Christina Perri's A Thousand Years (and The Piano Guys instrumental version)  
> Karmina's All The Kings Horses  
> MIIA's Dynasty.

Waylon stood outside his son’s room – marveling, with a mixture of pain, confusion, nostalgia and disgust in his belly, at how nothing seemed to have changed. Like a museum display or archeological dig, everything remained in pristine location though the room was far from clean. Bedding and linens appeared eerily tucked, smoothed wrinkle free while pile after pile of clothing littered random spots of the carpet. Books alternated between perilous towers atop various surfaces throughout the room and crammed tight into the unforgiving space of wooden bookshelves. Posters of eclectic taste decorated the walls – anything from charts of constellations to Johnny-every-teen’s swimsuit model. To Jace’s credit, he only had one of those and, unlike the others, it curled from one edge and showed the room’s decay since its master had never returned.

Open moving boxes sat empty, flush against one wall and Waylon began to put the pieces together the more he noted the room. A silent war had begun when someone – undetermined at this point – attempted to pack Jace’s things away. Upon closer inspection, Waylon found packing tape adhered to either flap of one box – its empty maw gaping wide and hungry. The piles of clothing, books and other items made more sense if they had once occupied the boxes before someone else, Audrey most likely, came and displaced them again. Having heard nothing of a battle over his son’s room, he was left to assume Audrey won. Jace’s room remained a time capsule, a freeze frame of a day in his life… a morbid, candle-less vigil for his mother to return to. It made him wonder if she would do the same to Felicity’s room.

“She wouldn’t let us pack it up,” came his ex-wife’s voice from further down the hall.

Waylon broke his stare with the room and looked her way, somewhat confused. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Felicty,” she answered and walked closer.

Waylon glanced back at the room, then Audrey and admitted, “No offense, but I thought this was your doing. Grief and all that.”

“Hmph,” is what she offered in return. “None taken. I think you know me well enough to remember that when it comes to endings, I pack up and move on.” Her homage to the death of their marriage.

Now it was his turn to grunt. Then he reached out and closed the door to his son’s room. “Don’t you think its time, though?”

Audrey clucked her tongue, turned and walked toward her room. Out of lack for anything better to do and because the conversation wasn’t over, he followed her. She didn’t object, though she didn’t exactly invite him in, either. Audrey took a seat at her vanity, where a glass of gin and tonic waited for her. Waylon sank into a chair by her windows, taking her room in and noticing the similarities between how she decorated as a single woman and how _their_ bedroom had looked.

She took a sip and said, “I thought it was time years ago, but Felicity wouldn’t have it. Became a crying fit every time either I or mom would start to pack stuff up. After a while, mom stopped offering to help, stopped coming over and it was just me and her. I started thinking we had tried to do it too soon, but when I started back up a year later – the same, damn reaction only with screaming. We’d get into these yelling matches, both end up in tears… it was bad.”

Waylon looked at his shoes, then her. “Why didn’t you call? I had no idea. I - ”

“What would you have done, Waylon?” she cut him off, but her tone wasn’t vicious. It was tired. “I was _exactly_ in the mood to talk to you and the last thing I needed was for her to lose it because _you_ were getting involved.”

He winced, recalling how vehemently Felicity had blamed him for her brother’s death though it was really the result of a freak accident.

“Still…” he said, voice weak. “I could have done something… Hired movers, took her back to Charleston, paid for therapy – _something.”_

“Stop, Waylon,” Audrey insisted, “It’s a moot point now. Conclusion was that I got tired of spending all my free time warring with my daughter instead of helping her. So, I left the room alone keep it locked up.”

His brows went up. “Then why was the door wide open?”

She frowned and sipped her drink. “Because she left it open. I keep it locked. When I’m not here, Felicity opens it again. She must have been in there the night - ” and she choked on her words.

Waylon could see tears brimming in her eyes. He moved from his seat and placed a hand on her shoulder – an unconscious move she, to his surprise, didn’t rebuff. Neither spoke for a long time – the weight of their lost children bearing down on them like lead.

* * *

“ _It’s called Polaris,”_ Jace explained with such enthusiasm, Felicity thought he was going to bubble right out of his skin.

“ _What is?”_ She asked him, blinking at his movements between an encyclopedia of stars and the new telescope he had begged, whined and fought out of their father.

“ _The Northern Star,”_ he answered with an exasperated sigh – as if he couldn’t believe she was his sister.

“ _Oh...okay.”_ She answered to humor him because, truth be told – she’d been bored to tears since he started in on the whole Sciency-stuff. He’d been going strong for about thirty minutes now.

But Jace loved that stuff. He loved anything astronomy… anything -onomy, really. Or -ology. He loved Science. He was _good_ at Science. And Math. And everything else. Jace was mom and dad’s perfect little boy, even though he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was five years older than her, and in the middle of seventh grade at the time of this academic lecture. He had just gone on a field trip to the Observatory at Boston University and ever since, he’d been prattling on and on about the skies, stars and planetary movements. She neither knew nor really cared about the stars but fell in love with the necklace he had brought her from the trip – hence the conversation. She had held up the necklace, watched the light of his lamp shine and separate into a rainbow of colors. _“So, that’s what this is?”_

“ _I mean, not literally...Stars are big gas balls, you know? I thought you’d like it.”_ He shrugged.

“ _I do. It’s pretty. But what so special about this...pole?”_

“ _Polaris,”_ he corrected. _“They call it a polar star. Means its at one of the poles of the Earth – y’know, north pole, south pole. It’s also a fixed star, which means it doesn’t move even when the Earth does.”_

“ _Oh...”_ she looked down at her necklace, thumbing it gently in the palm of her hand and trying to make sense of what Jace had been saying.

“ _Here, look at this,”_ he interrupted her thinking by settling beside her and moving a large picture book onto her lap. The writing was small and there was a lot of it, but she could get it in chunks. What she was more interested in was the water color illustration on the page – dark, cloudless evening filled with stars, rolling waves with foam on the crests and the bow of an ancient ship breaking through the water. There were bearded, fur covered men in the boat, their large arms pulling at oars to propel the boat forward while one of them stood by the mast – anchoring himself while he looked toward the left-hand most corner of the illustration, where a giant star gleamed in the black of the night. Jace’s fingers had pointed to different parts of the picture while he spoke, _“It’s a **special** star, Lissy. Greeks, Romans, Vikings...all those ancient peoples used it to navigate their ships. It was their guiding light. Without it...who knows if they could have traveled as well an explored?”_

 _Who knows…_ she thought while looking between the picture, her brother and the necklace, _Who knows what could have been?_

* * *

Christopher Christiansen was a quiet boy. You wouldn’t have known that had you met him and his parents years ago. Unbeknownst to him, because his parents rarely talked to him about these things, Christopher used to be quite the colicky baby. Then he was a whiny, tantrumming toddler with the vocal alacrity of a firecracker. His shrill tones almost drove his parents mad. Maybe that was why they originally agreed to let Felicity into their home. One surly child for another – pair them together and maybe they would wear one another down. Chris didn’t like storing up many memories, as the majority of them involved one of three things, 1) his mother slurring her words with a wine glass in hand, 2) his parents arguing in hushed tones somewhere upstairs or 3) his father being half-heartedly preachy. He didn’t like any of those things and, at first, he hadn’t like _her_ but she occupied more storage space in his memory than most other people, places or things. Which was saying something, for a life that spanned little more than a decade.

His father had brought her to their home a few days after her brother’s funeral. Chris vaguely remembered her twirling her hair around her fingers and avoiding eye contact with anyone. His parents called it “babysitting”, but what it really was – he imagined – was an attempt to distract her from the emotional pain of losing her brother by giving her a surrogate brother to watch over for a few hours a day while his father worked on sermons and planned youth events for the church. This mostly consisted of she and Chris playing the variety of card and kiddy-board games he’d accumulated over the fourish years of Christmases and birthdays. When he whined or threw a tantrum about her winning, she would get up and walk away – fists curling at her sides and cheeks puffing out in frustration. But she ignored him. He hadn’t been used to that. He’d been accustomed to his parents arguing, soothing and bartering with him to calm down – they never just walked away.

When he followed after her, squawking like a tiny bird, she kept walking around the house as if guiding herself on a personalized tour of her temporary environment. The louder or sharper his protestations became, the faster she moved or harder she stomped her feet. She walked the loop of the house, coming to a sharp stop outside his father’s office where she’d confronted Joseph on the noise. Felicity’s sharp finger pointed in his direction had made him anxious, listening to her was a mixture of sadness and anger.

“ _He’s so annoying!”_

“ _Felicity, he’s just a little boy,”_ his father had countered with a gentle, pastoral tone, _“Have some patience.”_

“ _Why?”_

“ _Because he’s going through a lot. He just found out his mommy is having another baby,”_ Joseph had said while smiling at Chris. Chris remembers scowling back at his father.

“ _And I just watched them bury my brother,”_ Felicity had countered so flawlessly, it left his father speechless. Then she did something Chris hadn’t seen anyone else in his home, except him, do. She started crying – real tears, chest shuddering and feet stomping against their hardwood floors.

“ _Oh, honey, I didn’t mean - ”_

“ _Don’t call me that!”_ She had snapped with a sniff. There was silence as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. _“Sorry… I didn’t mean to be rude.”_

Chris remembers his father offering her a hug, Felicity remaining fairly stony and stiff while Joseph repeated how everything was going to be okay. After his father returned from dropping Felicity off at home, Chris asked him why she had become so upset. That’s when Joseph explained how Felicity’s brother had passed away because of an accident and she was still very, very upset. That, aside from the most recent conversation about Felicity’s car accident and coma, was one of the last serious conversations he had with his father. From that evening on, he had made an effort to get along with Felicity. And get along, they did – even after three more siblings came along he had to divide her attention with.

But here, in his room, he didn’t have to divide her attention with anyone else. Frame by frame, he had gathered all the pictures they had of Felicity and stacked them around his room – manufacturing a shrine of sorts for himself. The only pictures not present were those he had toted up to Boston to place around her room in the hopes she woke remembering who all of them were – who he was. Others might have labeled him obsessed if they saw the state of his room, but for the last six years she had been their constancy. Even now, Christopher could hear the muted arguments of his parents – bickering over things he didn’t understand because he was a _child_ and they were _adults_. He really didn’t care. Chris and his siblings – well, the twins, since Crish didn’t count being a baby – had come to rely on the steady pattern of Felicity arriving, their parents leaving and their babysitter carrying out the duties usually assigned to full-time nannies. She cooked, cleaned a little, made sure homework was done, baths were taken and bodies were tucked into bed.

They moved to her rhythm. And now their tempo was off and he didn’t know how to cope aside from surrounding himself with snapshots of her. He missed her because she wasn’t just his babysitter. Felicity had become an older sister; a weird, teenage, second mother who was never drunk because she couldn’t legally touch alcohol. He missed her and the cadence she created for him. Now he was back to a time that hadn’t existed since before she was ever a part of his life, except he had three more siblings to consider, a mother who spent more time outside the home than in it and a father who was working triply hard to maintain ‘normal’ for his kids – playing the role of father, mother and whatever Felicity was while also maintaining his career as a youth minister. Baking had replaced the games Felicity engaged them in. Chris hated baking, so he retreated to his room and stared at the pictures.

Despite his father being a man of the cloth, Chris always found it difficult to pray. He was never sure what to say or pray for, aside from the child-norms of mommies, daddies, grandparents, siblings and friends. But, lately, his prayer had been the same, steady narrative – _Please, let her wake up. Please, let her remember who I am. Please, don’t take her from me._

 

* * *

_**Who knows what could have been… This is what she thought while standing where she was.** _

_**She didn’t know where she was. It seemed like a rolling, desolate place. It was neither hot nor cold, dry nor damp. It just was. There was the ground and above it, a mass expanse of star-filled sky. Her body felt as though it had been her more times than she had numbers for and yet, nothing was familiar.** **How had she gotten here? Was she going to die here? Was she already dead? She seemed herself, seemed alive but not. Even her body had an edge of difference about it she couldn’t put her finger on.** **What was** **recognizable was the sensation of loneliness. She was all alone as she wandered this nothingness desert. Sometimes she thought she heard the echo of voices, but when she turned there was never anyone there. She stopped walking and looked upward at the celestial bodies that twinkled and rotated in slow circles above this wasteland. Only one didn’t move. Only one stood out amongst the others in its fixed position and she felt her bottom lip tremble. Her eyes slid closed and she touched the center of her chest, but found nothing there…** _

“ _ **What am I doing here?” her voice echoed around the landscape. It was a hollow, aching sound that seemed entirely her voice and, yet, foreign. She opened her eyes and looked up at the only star that remained immobile and asked again, “What am I doing here?”**_

“ _ **What are you doing here, indeed,” came a stern, but tender voice from somewhere behind her. A foot...a mile?**_

_**She blinked and it could have been an eternity before she opened her eyes again. There was no time in this place. Only the place, the desert, the land and sky and stars. When she turned, the figure who spoke stood not too far behind her. Tall, well-built, handsome...auburn hair a tint more brunette than her own. His hands were stuffed into pockets of pants made from breathable fabric. His shirt could have been anything out of a Tommy Bahama catalog. She sucked in a sharp breath that hurt her throat.** _

“ _ **Jace…!”**_

“ _ **Hey there, Lissy.” He smiled and approached her.**_

_**Her eyes stung. She wasn’t alone! But… how was he here? She swallowed when he stopped within half an arm’s length of her. Was he some sick mirage? A cruel joke her mind was playing on her as she came to the end of whatever this was? She had no words and hung her head.** _

“ _ **Lissy,” he said again. So gentle was his tone that her heart broke.**_

“ _ **How are you here? Am I dead?” she asked, looking at the ground where dirty, bare feet touched ever-changing-colored sand.**_

“ _ **No,” he answered.**_

_**She felt soft pressure beneath her chin and raised her head to look at him. Four fingers of his hand held her. She thought she started crying, but she could never be sure what she did in this space. She felt him brush the tears away and she chuckled sadly, “Mom and dad really miss you, Jace. I really miss you… ”** _

“ _ **I know.”**_

“ _ **I bet they wish we’d traded places. Are you here to trade places with me, Jace? They’d be happy if we did,” she said flatly. Her throat was tight.**_

_**His eyes narrowed – the look of a concerned parent. His look. “Don’t ever say that, Lissy. Never again.”** _

“ _ **It’s true!” She grabbed his wrist, thankful for something solid and sure. Then she hugged him so tightly. So tightly, she thought she might break him. His steady arms wrapped around her and they stood there for a moment – for a thousand years. “I miss you so much. It hurts… nothing is the same.”**_

“ _ **I’m never far from you, Lissy,” his answer rang painfully true.**_

“ _ **But you’re not**_ there _**anymore,” Felicity objected.**_

_**He pulled back from her, holding her by each shoulder before looking down and pressing a palm to the center of her chest. “Always here. Always, Lissy,” he promised.** _

_**He removed his hand and there it was – what she had been missing. A glittering star on a silver chain. She touched the star and looked back at him.** _

“ _ **Remember, Lissy. A guiding light. A fixed star,” he whispered between them. It was the sound of a voice growing distant and she panicked.**_

“ _ **Don’t go! Don’t leave me!” she cried.**_

_**He laughed and touched the necklace again. “Never. Never going anywhere, Lissy.” Then he frowned and glanced up at the same star she had. “But you can’t stay here.”** _

“ _ **I don’t want to leave you… ”**_

“ _ **Never, Lissy.” Then he leaned forward and pressed a warm, dry kiss to her forehead. “Time to go, Lissy. Time to wake up.”**_

“ _ **No! Jace!”**_

_**Then he seemed a million miles away, but his voice was clear.** _

“ _ **Time to wake up. Wake up, Lissy!”**_

“ _ **Jace… ”**_

“ _ **Always with you, Lissy. Wake up, Lissy!”**_

“ _ **B-but… ”**_

“ _ **I love you, Lissy.”**_

_**She had no more words. Only the sound of his voice and the darkness behind her eyelids.** _

“ _ **Wake up, Lissy… ”**_

She felt her eyelids flutter, her fingers twitch. She heard him… heard his voice.

“Wake up, Lissy. Wake up, Brontë. _**Please**_ , wake up,” the voice was so pleading, so painful and desperate.

But it wasn’t Jace. Or was it and that other, desolate place just a horrid, tragic dream weaving in her greatest fears? Was this but his voice changed to reflect reality?

“Young man,” now there was another voice, stern and insistent, “Visiting hours are over. You need to leave.”

“Make me,” the voice threatened then started again, “Wake up, Lissy. It’s me… Wake up!”

 _But who was **me**? Who are you?_ She wondered as her eyelids quivered again with magnitudes too slight to be groundbreaking.

“Young man!”

“Fuck off, lady!”

 _Does Jace talk like that?_ She couldn’t recall that her brother _didn’t_ curse, so this sudden bark of profanity aided little in either confirming or denying what her brain was uncertain of.

“That’s it! I’m getting security. You’re in big trouble mister,” the other voice barked before the sound of stomping bounced off the walls.

“Stupid cow,” the original voice hissed. Then she felt a touch on the top of one hand and the mantra start all over, “Wake up, Lissy. Please,” he – because it was a **he** – pleaded. Somehow the sound of begging didn’t fit with this voice.

Then she heard it. A groan! Felt her fingers – at least she assumed they were her fingers – flex suddenly. There was a sharp intake of breath, but not her own because her throat felt hot, dry… arid.

“Lissy?! Brontë, can you hear me?! Wake up, Lissy!” He – whoever _he_ happened to be – was more demanding now. Desperate.

“Here he is officer. I told him visiting hours were over and that he needed to leave. He refused and was quite rude with me,” the other voice, feminine, was back and she resonated with triumph.

“Alright young man, you can either leave on your own or I can haul you outta here. Your choice,” another male voice, deeper and rich with authority.

“Like I told her, _make me_.”

Then the heat of his fingers on hers was snatched away and something in her chest ached. No, it _burned._ There was a scuffled, a lot of cursing and yelling. She jolted and sucked in air, finding it hard to breathe right. Eyes fluttering, struggling open. Everything was blurry but she could make out shapes thrashing and fighting one another. Another deep breath, croaking groan. The struggle died down, or was carried to a distance because it seemed less substantial than a moment ago.

“Did you hear that?!” the original voice, the desperate “he” asked.

“It happens,” the female answered. “Now stop fighting before we press charges, kid!”

She moaned again but what came out was little more than a feeble croak of language, “S-stop… ”

Now there was silence.  


“What in the world?” The female asked.

She strained to get her eyes open, but managed to succeed at the cost of more energy than she had. The image started muddied, obscure but the longer she stared, the greater the definition came into the face gawking at her. The woman was older and looked tired. Probably from the fight a moment ago. She was a… oh, what did they call them? N..nurse! She was a nurse. There was a nurse looking back at her. So… she was in a place where nurses were. What was that called?

“D-don’t go… ” she heard herself echo the supplicating request she’d asked of her brother. So, had she been talking to her brother, the other guy this whole time or… were they one and the same?

“Oh my g… Call a doctor!” The nurse cried.

“Let me go, dude!” And then there was another face gaping at her, breathing heavy. He was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Lavender gray hair, make-up… _really_ heavy eye-liner.

Wait.

This face she knew. _Right?_ She _**knew**_ this one. _But, I really don’t,_ whispered doubt, like a child, in the back of her muddle brain and a taunting frustration grew in her belly – two bodily organs in cahoots against her. She wanted to cry. Maybe focusing more on him would help, but the hardware decorating his face was more distracting than distinctive. _I have to know you,_ _I just_ _ **have**_ _to… to feel_ _ **this**_ _way when I look at you,_ she thought and felt her chest swell. Her heart was pounding with a knowledge too great and sweet for her brain to possess. The war inside her own body over this person made her eyes burn moist.

That seemed to provoke another constriction of anxiety from his face – the face she might have a name for, if that name belonged to her brother. The only other one came from her chest, not her cranium, and she couldn’t trust it belonged to this person. But if not him, then who?

She hacked out a name chopped beyond recognition.

“Young man, now I really must insist you leave. The doctors - ”

“Just a minute!” There was a sudden respect in his voice, “Please… just one moment?”

“I… you’ve got until they get here, kid, then you really need to amscray,” the nurse said and moved to poke and prod at her.

“Lissy,” he turned his attention fully on her. “Y-you’re really awake! You… you… ” His voice shuddered and he looked down.

The hand that had been flexing its fingers seemed to loft right off the bed and touch at his cheek with curious fingertips. He startled and swallowed. She smiled because expressions of soft happiness broke confusion like a cushion… right?

“Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chunk of Felicity/"Lissy" in the limbo-dream-land came out of listening to Rue's Farewell by James Newton Howard from the Hunger Games Soundtrack and, in the beginning, Tsimtsum from the Life of Pi soundtrack. Throughout the whole Lucien at her bedside scene, I listened to a lot of different tracks while rereading it - Christina Perri's A Thousand Years (and The Piano Guys instrumental version), Karmina's All The Kings Horses and MIIA's Dynasty.
> 
> I encourage you to listen to any one those (or whatever you like) while reading, as all of them conjure the emotion meant to be grasped by this chapter - seemingly gaining what you lost only to have it stolen one again... that punch in the gut kind of feeling?


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